


We Are Legend

by Vaysh



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Animagus, M/M, Phoenixes, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-08
Updated: 2012-03-08
Packaged: 2017-11-01 16:15:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 38,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/358789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vaysh/pseuds/Vaysh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eighty years into the future, Voldemort won. Harry Potter is a renegade wizard, Portkeying Muggles out of London to Hogwarts, last sanctuary in a Britain ruled by the Dark Lord. On a mission he encounters a powerful phoenix Animagus fighting on the Death Eaters' side. He recognises Draco Malfoy whom he thought long dead. But the differences between them are perhaps even greater than before. Enemies may become lovers, but can Harry return Draco the phoenix to humanity? And will they together be able to defeat Voldemort? This is the legend of Flash Man and the Blue Phoenix …</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Are Legend

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Romaine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Romaine/gifts).



> This story was written for the First Annual Creatures Fest in 2008. Please be aware that this story comes with a major character death warning. I usually abhor major character death. But with this story, there was no way I could not allow Harry and Draco to move on in the end. 
> 
> My heart-felt thanks go to my patient betas Alisanne, Pingrid, and especially to Caraloup.
> 
> All Harry Potter characters mentioned in this story are J. K. Rowling's. They are used with love and respect for her original creations. No copyright infringement is intended. The story's title and the words of Harry's radio broadcast are adapted from the 2007 movie [I Am Legend](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0480249/). The beautiful artwork [Phoenix Rising](http://quicksilverfury.deviantart.com/art/Phoenix-Rising-40724039) is by Quicksilverfury.

* * *

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/vaysh11/pic/00021qa5/)

_In typical bird-sex, males introduce sperm into  
females' bodies by pressing their sexual openings  
against the female's sexual opening, kiss-like._  
www.backyardnature.com, "birdsex"

 

_Dark City, the seventh month of Year 62 of the Second Wizarding Era  
(London, July 2080, Muggle-time)_

The old warehouse had seemed ideal. Abandoned amidst the overgrown wilderness, it stood right between the destroyed BBC headquarters and the grounds where the Crystal Palace had housed the World Fair more than two centuries ago. Far from the Death Eaters' areas in the City, but within easy reach from all of London still inhabited by survivors. For the last three weeks the refugees had gathered in White City. Harry had brought two groups up North into Hogwarts, last sanctuary in a Britain ruled by Voldemort. But now a small army of Death Eaters besieged the warehouse. Clearly they should have changed the refugees' departure point much sooner. 

"Told you I should've stayed, Flash Man." Aunt Timila's voice sounded shaky at his shoulder. 

Harry turned to give her an encouraging smile. "I'll get you out of here," he said. 

The small Indian woman flashed him a crooked smile of her own. With practised ease she redid her black, grey-streaked hair, then took a firm hold on the shoulder strap of her bag, indicating that she was set to go wherever he lead her. Harry watched her as she kept her eyes fearfully on the huge doors, then turned away before she noticed. Aunt Timila had never wanted to leave London. _I'll stay as long as there's people here eating my food_ , she used to say. _And the Death Eaters can eat death,_ she would add serving Harry another helping of spicy chicken and saffron-coloured rice. He would never forget how she'd stood before her burned-out restaurant, a stack of plates with a gold-stemmed rose pattern held tightly to her breast. It had not been hard then for him to convince her to join the next group of refugees.

"I'll get you out of here," Harry repeated to himself, then added, "All of you," with a look towards the other Muggles. They huddled close to one of the massive steel columns that once had carried the roof of the warehouse. What little daylight coming in through the tall windows was brittle and subdued. Even in July, the ever-present fog kept the sun at bay. Longbottom's hair flashed red in the group. The quiet wizard would keep the Muggles calm, prevent them from panicking and running away, into the hands of the Death Eaters. Through the windows Harry could see their shadows moving closer. Poliakoffa in her oddly elegant grey robes was kneeling to the left of him, Torwell and Jugson were far to the right on the other side of the hall, guarding the massive double doors. Stunning Spells flashed red repeatedly, then Harry heard a muffled scream. The black shapes massing at the doors retreated. He estimated five, maybe ten minutes until the Death Eaters would break through. 

Apparition was out of the question. It had taken Harry one look at the shimmering net-like signature of the Anti-Apparition spell to determine that it was unbreakable. Not for the first time he wished they could break the powerful non-Apparition spell which prevented them from setting up Portkeys directly in the Southside Muggle Ghetto. Voldemort had become so bloody powerful. Or perhaps he had always been such a brilliant wizard. Somehow he had managed to survive the Battle of Hogwarts, which should have been his end - according to prophecy, to Dumbledore's words, according to everything Harry had believed in. He and Arthur Weasley had found the dead body of the Ravenclaw first-year later, strangled to death without any magic, the marks of the murderer's long fingers on the small neck. A life for yet another stretch of Voldemort's unnatural existence. But it had not been his emaciated death-skull form that had survived. Harry had seen this body die with his own eyes.

But there were ways around powerful magic, even Anti-Apparition nets cast across an entire building. Harry had learnt that lesson the hard way and become stronger in the process. There was a reason why Harry Potter was the world's most powerful wizard. And the five minutes that Torwell and Jugson bought them at the doors might just be enough. He just needed to get the bead-covered shoe that he'd dropped in front of him to the Muggles. Those soft-leathered moccasins had been a craze with Muggles in the years following Voldemort's downfall, when everybody had believed him dead for once and all. Life had returned to normal then for a while. They seemed short to Harry now, these twenty years when he had actually believed that there was peace. He had loved, married, given life to three children. None still lived, of course, and only Lily had died a natural death. Her only child, Harry's granddaughter, was running the Hogwarts Sanctuary these days. 

The colourful moccasin was lying on a broken slab of cement. Harry had Portused the shoe himself, set it for the Hogwarts co-ordinates and adjusted the transportation time. Half the group needed to be touching the shoe in little more than eight minutes, the rest would go with Poliakoffa who held the second Portkey, a lidless sugar-bowl. He beckoned the witch to retreat towards the Muggles. They stood in the one corner where Harry had detected a weak spot in the Anti-Apparition Spell. Spells covering such an extended area were notoriously hard to cast, and while this one was way too powerful for even Harry's magic to break, the four wizards together might just be strong enough to rip a hole into the Spell's weaker boundaries. All they needed were five seconds at the right time to get them all out of here and into Hogwarts.

Harry gestured for Torwell and Jugson to retreat. He cast an Impediment Jinx while they placed a Gate-Bracing Spell on the iron doors, then quickly moved away from the huge metal containers they had been hiding behind. The Spell would not stand long against the onslaught of the Death Eaters' magic, but a few minutes should be enough. Harry flicked his wand at the walls, they went translucent for a moment. Masked figures were advancing towards the warehouse from all side, their shapes dark against the purplish light of the afternoon. They were massing at the doors, the enemy smelled defeat. With another flick of his wand the walls became solid again. Somehow the Death Eaters' spies must have learned about the departure point. It was easy enough. There was no way to keep the Muggles from talking amongst themselves. But they never were just amongst themselves. Voldemort's spies were everywhere. Disguised in Muggle clothing, they even moved around the Ghetto. 

Harry had his eyes on Torwell and Jugson scrambling over towards them, ready to give them cover should the Death Eaters break through. Only when Aunt Timila gasped at his side did he notice something was wrong. Torwell stopped mid-run and was cursing loudly. The Muggles screamed, and Harry heard Longbottom's deep voice. "Stay together. Stay together, damn it, Jason, stay – "

A sound like crashing thunder split the sky directly above the warehouse. The tall windows rattled in their rusty frames, and Harry could feel the steel columns shake. Then abruptly, there was silence. Pieces of paint, that had been peeling from the columns, drifted silently to the floor, flakes thin and fragile like paper burned to pale green ash. Harry dropped the moccasin to have one hand free. With a sharp thump it landed on the floor. On the far side of the warehouse there was a dry snap, then magic flooded the hall. The Death Eaters had broken the Locking Charm. Harry looked over to Poliakoffa, searched for the grey of her robes. Even before the whooshing, deafening boom reached his ears, he saw the tall windows explode into a rainstorm of glass and metal. The entire wall was blasted open right beside the Muggles. 

"Down! Down!" he heard Longbottom's voice, when Harry dragged Aunt Timila behind one of the columns, protecting her with his body. 

Razor-sharp chips were flying everywhere, within seconds the floor was covered with what looked like diamond snow. The Muggles were flat on the ground, and Harry breathed out with relief when Poliakoffa cast a Shield Charm around them. Then he noticed the black-robed figures climbing over the heaps of brick, grout and plaster. He didn't need to think when he cast a rapid volley of Stunning and Impediment Spells at them. He got three, four Death Eaters, saw Torwell fight as well, but there were too many advancing like a dark flood through the steel girders that were all that was left standing of the Eastern side of the warehouse.

"To the Muggles!" Harry screamed. The Portkey would be activated within the next minutes, they could make it yet. Whoever had brought down the wall had used a magical force so strong that Harry could still feel it in his bones. The Anti-Apparition Spell must have suffered from the blast, too. Its weaker fringe was showing clearly just behind the Muggles. Perhaps fifty yards away, Jugson and Torwell were crouched back to back, moving towards the Muggles like a human-sized crab, throwing Stunning Spells as they went. Harry cast _Petrificus Totalus_ in the general direction of the Death Eaters, grabbed the Portkey, shoved it in his back pocket, then started crawling towards the corner, too. He had managed about four yards, when he realised Aunt Timila was not at his side. He turned frantically and froze when he saw the woman leaning on the column where they had hidden. Blood was streaming down her neck, her face was turned up towards the ceiling. 

He scrambled back, forced himself to be careful when he drew Aunt Timila towards him. Then he saw the piece of blood-smeared glass. It was wedged into the skin of her neck, just below the ear. Dark wisps of hair had escaped the bun and curled around the shard as if it was a glittering earring. She must have been hit when the wall came down. Judging from the amount of blood spurting down her neck, the shard had severed a major artery. The familiar hollow sickness spread from Harry's stomach to his chest. He had been the one who'd persuaded Aunt Timila to leave the Dark City. He had promised he get her out safe. _Alive_ ...

"It's the Blue Phoenix," she whispered, and Harry followed her gaze upwards. The shadowy outlines of a bird-like creature were visible on the ceiling's iron beams. It seemed to just be watching them, but Harry could feel waves of magic emanating from it. 

Aunt Timila's words were repeated loudly by a strangled, panicked voice coming from the Muggles. "The Blue Phoenix!"

There was a commotion over at the doors, where scores of Death Eaters were pushing into the building. They, too, had seen the bird. There were yells of welcome, loud voices rising towards the ceiling. "He's come. The Blue Phoenix is here!"

Cold light suddenly filled the warehouse and made Harry squint. At the centre of it was the bird plunging towards the entrance like a raptor descending on its prey. It slowed down just before hitting the floor, then the hall was returned to its murky darkness. All that was left of the spectre was a flickering bluish-white light, hovering over where the Death Eaters stood. 

"Now we won't get away, will we, Harry?" Aunt Timila's breath came in laboured gasps, but her eyes were clear. 

"Can you move, Auntie?“ Harry asked.

She laughed harshly. "I doubt it, Flash Man. Not with that thing poking out of my neck."

There was little blood coming from the wound now. The shard seemed to have stoppered the artery it had ruptured. Harry didn't dare to remove it. Not here, not in the middle of a battle that with every passing minute they were more likely to lose. Aunt Timila's only chance were the healers at Hogwarts. The Portkey in his pocket would be activated in three minutes. Harry looked back to where Poliakoffa was walking a circle around the Muggles, casting a Protection Spell. She could take nine with her, perhaps ten. That still left five Muggles for him. Those five ... or Aunt Timila who might not even survive the transport. Five lives, or one? The choice should be easy, but it never was. 

Harry looked desperately for Torwell and Jugson. They had almost reached the Muggles. Poliakoffa had gathered them around her, waiting for the Portkey to be activated. Jugson turned towards Harry, waving him to get over, when his face all of a sudden was lit in a green glare. It took Harry a full second to realise that this was the Death Eaters' attack. He heard the _"Avada Kedavra"_ come from dozens of throats, as they cast Killing Curses towards the Muggles. This war was about extermination, God, he knew that. But he never expected such a blunt attack. Poliakoffa's _Salvio Hexia_ flashed orange as the combined power of the Curses hit it. And it held. For now.

The Protection Spell didn't shield everyone, though. Torwell crumpled to the floor, moments before Jugson's Shield Charm came up. Harry screamed, and the next thing he knew was poisonous green light flashing right before his eyes. The column shook as the Killing Curse hit it. Aunt Timila clung too him, eyes wide in shock. He raised a Shield Charm against the Death Eaters at the doors. A group of them had moved behind the containers and were casting Spells from there. Harry raised his wand towards the corner, towards that weak spot in the Anti-Apparition net. It shimmered like heat in the height of summer, back when there still had been summers in the Dark City. Harry pressed Aunt Timila towards him, careful not to touch the shard. It had been so long since he had seen a real summer. He shouted _"Reducto!"_ and felt the floor shake, then a gap opened within the shimmering spot in the air. There was a fresh green behind it, the green of the smoothly rolling hills surrounding Hogwarts. _This one life,_ Harry thought pushing the moccasin in Aunt Timila's shaking hands and holding onto the Portkey himself. Any second now –

The Killing Curse bounced off the column left of them. It had come from the side, from the collapsed wall, where dust-covered Death Eaters were hiding behind bricks and mounds of shattered glass. Harry had never cast a Shield Charm in this direction. This way was their escape route, the rip in the Anti-Apparition Spell. He had to leave it Unshielded for the Portus Spell to work.

Harry felt the tug of the Portkey at the same time as Aunt Timila's body went slack in his arms. Her head fell back, he looked into brown eyes staring lifelessly back at him. _Not ... not her._ The shoe slid out of her hands when Harry let go of it. From the corner of his eyes he saw that Poliakoffa had Portkeyed out with her group. Longbottom was gone, too. He must have Disapparated, taking two Muggles side-along. Jugson sat beside Torwell, four remaining Muggles staring alternately at him and Harry. 

Jugson's face was twisted with grief, and Harry remembered that he and Torwell had been lovers. Longbottom's oversight, when he had put together the team. No lovers or married couples in one team, it meant unnecessary risks and attachments which could jeopardise the entire mission. Clearly, the tall wizard would not leave Torwell. Harry got up, lowering Aunt Timila's body to the floor. Perhaps there should be a similar rule for friends. He'd be damned if he left the body of Aunt Timila to the wolves. He slowly turned towards the Death Eaters who were approaching from two sides. Damn the cowardly bastards! Did they know nothing but strength in numbers? Harry raised his wand, lowered the Shield Charm.

The _"Expelliarmus"_ echoed through the warehouse as he cast the Spell repeatedly towards the containers and the crashed wall. Wands came flying from all sides, clattering on the floor in front of him. He allowed himself a quick smile, then prepared for the inevitable counter-attack. He had been hit with the Killing Curse before, and while the Curse could not kill him, it was not a pleasant experience. Even immortal, humans felt pain. 

Harry waited. He could only hope that Jugson and the Muggles got away in the chaos once the Death Eaters discovered that they had captured the legendary renegade wizard the Muggles called Flash Man.

The seconds stretched on. Since the clattering of the wands there had been barely a sound in the hall. Harry dared a quick glance towards Jugson. The wizard had called the Muggles towards him. The golden glow of a Shield Charm shimmered around them. They were safe for the moment. But why didn't the Death Eaters attack? Judging from the wands at his feet, there must be at least fifty Dark wizards still out there with the ability to _Avada Kadevra_ him on the spot.

A solitary figure stepped out from behind the containers. With quick, determined strides it walked towards them. Black robes moved as if caught in a wind, splintered glass crunched underneath heavy boots. The stranger's head was hidden below the hood. There was something about the way ...

Harry felt the surge of magic even before he saw Jugson raise his wand. His Shield Charm was down, the wizard ready to kill, Harry could feel it. He spun around, screamed "Don't!" and sent a light Stun towards Jugson. The stranger looked up as if Harry's scream had been a pre-arranged signal. Still walking he raised his hands and took down the hood in one swift move. Hair bright like silver flashed in the dim light of the warehouse. Harry felt his heart stop. That colour hair ... 

"Are you crazy?" Jugson yelled at him from the ground. The Muggles helped him up. "He's going to kill us!" Before Harry could react, Jugson cast an Impediment Jinx at the stranger. The wizard never broke his stride, simply raised one hand and deflected the jinx. He looked straight ahead at Harry. 

"Let him come," Harry said barely loud enough for Jugson to hear. The stranger was a mere twenty yards away. As he came closer, Harry took in the knee-high leather boots, the flowing old-fashioned cut of the robes, the odd way his left arm swung in a slightly crooked angle. Then the man stood before him.

It was his hair. His eyes. His bloody pointed chin. He looked twenty-five, thirty at the most. And this – this could not be. 

The wizard's eyes held Harry's gaze as he slowly raised his hand. Harry forced himself not to flinch. He needed to know. A finger, cold as ice, touched his left cheek, the corner of his left eye. The touch was light as breath, barely a touch at all.

"You?" the stranger whispered. His finger moved towards Harry's scar, then stopped. He dropped his hand. His mouth formed soundless words. _No glamour,_ Harry read from the pale lips. He wanted to shake his head – why would he glamour himself with a scar so recognisable, so dangerous? – but all he managed was a jerk of the chin. Grey eyes seemed to pierce him when the wizard asked, "Potter?"

The voice sounded different than Harry remembered, rusty and hoarse, as if it was not used very much. For the first time he noted the bluish light flickering around the stranger. Harry meant to nod, but he couldn't move. His skin prickled where the finger had touched him. The other man gazed at him intently, as if Harry was as much of a puzzle to him as he was to Harry. Then he abruptly turned and walked back with the same indifferent determination as before.

Something about those hunched-up shoulders broke the spell Harry was under. He stepped forward quickly, shouted, "Malfoy!"

The name hit him like a curse. Malfoy's body arched as he threw his head back and stopped. For a moment Harry feared Jugson had cast another Spell and Malfoy would drop to his knees. But then he slowly turned, and Harry was shocked by the pain in his face. 

"You care for this Muggle?" Malfoy asked in that odd scratchy voice and pointed towards the lifeless body of Aunt Timila. 

Harry nodded. "Yes. Yes, she's a friend."

With three long steps Malfoy was at Aunt Timila's side. He crouched beside her, moved her head with a gentleness that surprised Harry. 

"Get down here," Malfoy said as if it was the most natural thing for him to order Harry Potter around.

But Harry obeyed. Something strange was happening, and he had to know what it was. He knelt down beside Aunt Timila, setting her head in his lap. Malfoy looked up from the dead woman to Harry, his expression unreadable. The pain, which had distorted his face moments ago, was now only visible in his eyes. Then he extended his arms in the oddest of gestures. And was gone with the blink of an eye. A bird the size of a swan sat beside Aunt Timila, wings spread wide as if to protect the body. Harry was too startled to even jump. From the Muggles and Jugson he heard loud gasps and a fearful scream of surprise. 

Large silver talons buried themselves in the cracks of the cement slabs. The bird's plumage was a blue so dark it seemed black, with a silver-feathered tail. The underside of those huge wings and its belly was a lighter blue, and when it lowered its head Harry saw the whitish glimmer of its crest. For a second he feared that the bird might hurt Aunt Timila with his strong silver beak, but it simply pressed its head towards her neck. Drop-shaped pearls of ice were falling from its grey eyes. For all its dark colouring, the bird's resemblance with Fawkes was striking. 

_Phoenix tears. Of course ... healing powers ..._ A boy's voice from another life echoed in Harry's mind. More and more frozen tears pooled around the wound, melting from the contact with human skin that was still warm. Harry carefully pulled at the shard of glass, and it slipped out easily, like a knife out of soft butter. The wound filled with the melted tears, pink skin closed over it. Within seconds there was nothing left of the gash but a glittering wet spot on Aunt Timila's skin.

The phoenix raised its head, shaking it in a gesture of impatience. With a sudden movement of its wings it stepped backwards and then rose into the air. Harry watched the bird spiral up towards the ceiling, stunned. In his lap he felt Aunt Timila stir and take a first shaky breath. It seemed hardly possible, but he could feel her heart start to beat again, stutter at first, then settle into a strong, even pace. 

He meant to look down at her, meet her eyes that he knew were open and alive, when he felt powerful magic erupt in the sky above. The phoenix hovered directly above the crashed-in roof of the warehouse. From the tips of its wings silver beams shot out and downward. Where they hit the Anti-Apparition Spell it shattered, and like an infection the silver spread wider and wider, lighting the entire building in a brilliant white. The phoenix took to the sky, a streak of blue against the murky twilight. Harry watched it soar ever higher, until it disappeared behind the clouds. For the first time in what felt like an eternity he felt his own heart flutter – a stumbling, hopeful rhythm.

* *

The signal's intermittent beep swept through the fog-shapes that moved sluggishly over the water. Even in the late morning, a mere hour before noon, a muddy gloom lay over the City, thanks to the Dementors who had been breeding all Spring. Voldemort kept his most faithful servants in good spirits by having them feed off imprisoned Muggles. No one - neither Muggle nor wizard - dared to go close to the Isle of Dogs which Voldemort had given to the Dementors.

Harry adjusted the small transmitter, trying to pick up a stronger signal that he could use to broadcast his daily message. Muggle technology had been quite adaptive to the demolition of the National Grid, starting with the destruction of Drax power station in Year one of Voldemort's second return. Oily, noisy generators, solar watches and battery-powered digital radios went for thousands of Galleons on the black market. Harry looked up from where he knelt on the platform stretching into the Thames. The fog was so thick that he could barely see the other side of the river. The ruins of the Houses of Parliament were blurred shapes peeking out of the greyness. He remembered how, in the early evenings, sometimes all the windows had been lit up, rows of bright squares reflecting on the surface of the river. Electric light was dangerous these days, a dead give-away to the Death Squads that Muggles were living in a building. In the wizarding districts there was no muted shimmer of candlelight, either. People kept their curtains closed or had their windows enchanted to show them whatever they wished on the inside, a lifeless façade to the outside. London at night was a pitch-black cityscape, a Dark City indeed.

To Harry's left the Westminster Bridge loomed in the fog, to his right was the City, Death Eater territory. Behind it started uninhabitable ground, the Dementors' realm. The dread and despair that lay over Greenwich, Whitechapel, Rotherhithe and New Cross could be felt even here, on this small sunny patch amidst the sea of mist. It was a risky location for the broadcast, so close to Buckingham Palace where Voldemort had taken up residence if the rumours circulating in the Muggle Ghetto were true. And of course there was no telling whether Dementors were hiding behind those drifting grey wisps. 

The pressure behind his scar became stronger as the midday sun pierced through the clouds. Harry slid to the floor beside the huge broken spindle and leant against one of the wrecked capsules that once had circled high into the air. He was constantly aware of his link into Voldemort's mind now, controlling it with Occlumency but never shutting it down all the way like he used to do. In those first years of peace, he had not thought much about the sudden flashes into the disturbed mind, he had taken them for his own brain playing out nightmares, showing him twisted after-images of the war. And maybe they were. The link had become so much a part of him that Harry was never sure how much was himself, how much Voldemort. But in his youth he had felt a sharp intellect through the link, a sadistic craziness that was ruled by a twisted kind of purpose and logic. Ever since the Battle of Hogwarts there had been a more visceral force on the other side, a mind focused on smell and taste, on food and warmth as much as on its grand airs of pure-blooded world dominion. Not for the first time Harry wondered if Voldemort's new body was not all human, but some magical beast, perhaps hiding in the Tower dungeons.

As he scanned the Southern Embankment his gaze inadvertently went up into the sky. Ever since that uncanny encounter with Malfoy he found himself searching the horizons. During the last days he had seen a huge bird fly in the distance several times, but he could not be sure if had been the phoenix. That scratchy voice whispering _Potter_ ... It was but a distorted echo from Malfoy's vicious drawl, but Harry couldn't get it out of his mind. It made him remember the days when Flash Man was a figment from a future not one of them could have had foreseen. Made him long for memories of carefree and happy times, which in reality he had never known back in school. All these years Harry had thought it was only him and Voldemort left. And now there was Malfoy. Malfoy, who'd always been on the Dark side.

The Blue Phoenix was one of the more powerful, if unpredictable minions of Voldemort. Every once in a while it appeared at some battle, throwing itself recklessly into the most dangerous action. It was rumoured that in the final confrontation, it had been the phoenix's powerful magic that had allowed the Death Eaters to break into the Department of Mysteries where the Unspeakables had protected the last secrets from the Dark. The Muggles believed the Blue Phoenix to be invulnerable, untouchable by neither their weapons nor magic. Why the bird had appeared in the warehouse, Harry had no idea – refugees rated low on the list of Voldemort's enemies.

Harry had never believed that the magical creature truly was a phoenix. A phoenix did not kill. At least he had thought that, but really, he had only known Fawkes. Malfoy had to be a phoenix Animagus. It was the only explanation that made sense, the only explanation of why Malfoy was still alive. Last Harry had heard of him, he had died in Azkaban, decades ago. But the stranger had been Malfoy, Harry was sure of it. Different of course, like Harry himself, altered by time and whatever had happened to him, but some things never changed. That shifty look in those grey eyes, the way he moved deliberately, too conscious of each gesture and step for them to be all natural. And of course, the feel of his magic. Harry could still remember it ripple through him, where Malfoy had touched his skin. 

The cement platform was now wrapped in bright sunlight. It had burned off the fog over the river, where a sudden breeze made the water glitter like liquid silver. Harry got up and adjusted the dial of the transmitter. The signal was strong now, a regular beep-beep-beep that would carry his message far into the Northern districts where Muggles might still be hiding. As Harry prepared to talk into the microphone he wondered if Malfoy would perhaps hear his broadcast. He quietly chuckled about the silly notion. Malfoy likely had never even touched a Muggle radio, and if the Blue Phoenix could intercept Flash Man's message, then the Death Eaters would be here in no time. 

Standing in the noon sun in the middle of the platform, the transmitter's antenna aimed in the direction of Trafalgar's Square, Harry's voice carried far across the water.

"My name is Harry Potter. I am a half-blood wizard still living in the City of London. I am broadcasting on all frequencies. I will be at the London Eye platform every day this week at midday, when the sun is highest in the sky. If you are out there ... if any surviving Muggle or Muggle-born wizard or witch is out there ... I can provide food, I can provide shelter, I can provide safe passage to Sanctuary. If there's anyone out there ... anybody ... please. You are not alone."

* *

Strips of moonlight on the floor formed a large, blurry circle. The air smelled strangely spicy and sweet. Someone was with him in this room, which was not his own. This was not number twelve, Grimmauld Place. Somewhere higher, more spacious, a workshop of some kind, judging from the feel of wood and metal around him. Harry turned his head. A peacock feathers' eyes-embroidery white on white on the pillow, muted electric light from somewhere below, the fuzzy shape of a bird upon the perch, bluish dark against an even darker wall. And in Harry's breast, pain like fire. It burned him as he moved, flared into a piercing blaze as he inhaled sharply. A moan tore from his lips, shadows crept into his eyes. The bird swept down towards him, then there was nothing but lightless, painless, sweet, so –

*

A red sundown flooded the room when Harry awoke. He noted the strong smell before anything else, remembered it from earlier and even before, a memory of Mrs. Weasley's kitchen, buried so deep that he had all but forgotten it: star-shaped cookies with a brittle sugary crust on top, melting into the zingy chocolate taste underneath.

The curtains had been removed from the dark-wooded four-poster bed where he was lying, above him was a dark green canopy. He didn't move, simply watched as the thin shadows of the window bars moved across the blankets. There was movement at the other side of the lofty room. Bare feet walked across wooden floor. A human then. It had to be Malfoy. Harry didn't remember too clearly, but Death Eaters had attacked him on his way back home. Their fucking masks, a wand at his throat before he could even blink. The green of the Killing Curse still flashed on the inside of his lids whenever he closed his eyes. A voice in his head said: _You knew damn well that the platform was too exposed. You are getting careless, Harry._ Hermione's voice, unchanged after fifty-three years. Nothing like Malfoy's rough voice that had spoken to him in clipped, one-syllable words. But Hermione was dead, and Malfoy had been there, had got him away from the Death Eaters and brought him here, wherever here was. Harry remembered nothing after the painful tug of Side-Along Apparition.

Someone – Malfoy – was standing at the side of the bed. Harry was careful to move his head only a fraction, turn it slowly, so that his aching body kept lying quiet. Still he almost flinched. Malfoy was stark naked. A vision of pale skin and white-blond hair tugged into a ponytail, his groin fully exposed to Harry's gaze. He held a goblet in one hand.

"Killing Curse," he said in a matter-of-fact tone as if this was how he usually welcomed people to his place.

Harry bit back an involuntary chuckle, then realised that of course this had to be the biggest puzzle for Malfoy. He couldn't really explain it all that well himself. Voldemort was alive, and thus, so was he. There was another Horcrux, and he would go on living until he found it, destroyed it and killed Voldemort. Like everything in Harry's life, what sounded so simple, was the hardest thing to do. He wanted to say something, answer Malfoy's unspoken question, but he barely opened his mouth when the pain flared up in his breast. He knew at once that he was better, that he wouldn't pass out again, but still the pain made him tremble. Cold sweat gathered on his forehead and palms. 

Malfoy said, "Don't speak. Later." He was still gazing at Harry. Then, as if he'd seen something that made him decide what to do, he crouched down beside the bed, his face closer all of a sudden. "Strengthening Potion," he explained. He slipped one hand behind Harry's neck, lifting his head as he held the goblet to his mouth. White stars shot up before Harry's eyes, the pain was so excruciating. He never heard the scream, but he must have cried out. Where the sound had left his throat, there was an aching, gasping cold. In a flash it all came back to Harry: the broken pavement, the puddles gleaming as if they still reflected the blinding silver of the Blue Phoenix's Spell. Beside him a bone-white, leopard's head-shaped Death Eater's mask, the wizard behind it dead or Stunned. The phoenix's head on Harry's body, as if it was listening for the beat of his heart. The frozen tears sliding from its grey eyes had been cold, sharp icicles burrowing into Harry's chest. 

Those same grey eyes looked at him now. Malfoy seemed at a loss as to how to get Harry to drink the potion. He dipped his forefinger into the goblet, raised it with the thickly reddish liquid stuck to it. He stopped before touching Harry's lips, and the potion oozed from his fingers onto the pillow.

"Spoon," Harry whispered.

Malfoy's eyes widened at the simple suggestion, and Harry wondered what was wrong with the man. Malfoy rose and turned slowly, obviously searching his home for the place where he might have hidden the silverware. After a few seconds he pronounced a clear: _"Accio spoon!"_ Somewhere below, a drawer opened with a bang, seconds later a spoon came racing towards the bed. Malfoy caught it with his open hand. Once Narcissa Malfoy might have used the delicately wrought implement to stir sugar into her afternoon tea. Malfoy looked at the spoon like he had never seen it before, then turned towards Harry with a smirk. It made Harry ache inside, that boyish smirk. There was no way he could explain to Malfoy why seeing him smirk brought tears to Harry's eyes. He closed them, waiting for the emotion to subside.

The tip of the spoon prodded his lips open gently. Harry could taste the pomegranate underneath the bitterness of asphodel. He swallowed the potion, waited for the spoon to be refilled, swallowed again. When he opened his eyes, Malfoy looked worried. And oddly curious. Drowsiness spread through Harry's body, turning the pain into a thing apart from him. He felt like yawning and stretching. Maybe he did. But all he remembered was the soft touch of a finger on his lips.

*

Harry drifted in and out of sleep. Time had become a spoon at his lips trickling drops of water into his mouth. When Malfoy was not at the side of the bed, there was always the phoenix on the other side of the wide room, up on its perch or half-hidden in an enormous nest. In his sleep Harry sometimes would grope for his chest, trying to get rid of the pain and the itching. Several times, the unexpected feel of the dressing that Malfoy – it had to have been Malfoy – had put on the wounds had woken him. Once he had a strange dream where white-clad people were making him drink potions he spit out with a vicious snarl. The fury was familiar and not Harry's at all, and he had come wide awake with a jolt. Something had happened to Voldemort, he was hurt or sick. _Neither can live while the other survives,_ the old prophecy said, and their bond had become very strong over the years. It was possible that Harry's injury had affected Voldemort.

"You need to eat." Malfoy's scratchy voice was close, and Harry opened his eyes. The smell of cinnamon was stronger when Malfoy was near, as if it emanated from his skin somehow. Malfoy never wore any clothing, and Harry suspected it had to do with the fact that he spent most of the time in his phoenix form. He kept his eyes on Malfoy's hair which hung lose, almost touching his shoulders. Strands of it fell into his eyes, and he pushed them back impatiently. A plate with slices of peach stood on the bedside cabinet, beside it was a tin container without a handle. Behind the plate Harry spotted his wand, his glasses and solar watch. 

Instinctively Harry reached for the glasses and was stopped by a painful tearing in his chest. Malfoy's hand was at his shoulder at once, pushing him back into the pillows. He handed Harry his glasses, then reached for the plate and crouched down beside the bed. Harry couldn't help looking at his chest, which had come into sharp focus once he had put the glasses on. He concentrated on the almost hairless skin and the pink nipples, which somehow seemed too small for a grown man. But Harry's eyes were drawn to the thin scars that ran diagonally across Malfoy's chest and stomach. In the muted light of the late afternoon they were barely visible, but in a sharper light they would gleam like sliced ribbons of lace. Harry had seen enough injuries to know how deep the wounds must have been to leave such scars, and he quickly looked away.

Malfoy must have seen him stare, for he put down the plate. Carefully he pulled the covers away from Harry's chest. Harry was too startled to do anything, he just watched as Malfoy removed the dressing with a non-verbal De-Sticking Charm. The bandage came off easily, and Harry felt a bit awed in Malfoy's presence. Which was the oddest of emotions, one that he hadn't felt for a very, very long time. He had mastered wandless, non-verbal magic himself, but he could never do it with such casual ease. And the phoenix _had_ brought down the Death Eaters' Anti-Apparition Spell. Malfoy's magic had always been fairly strong, but nothing comparable to this. Whatever had happened to him must have changed him more deeply than Harry had assumed. _He could be a strong ally,_ Hermione's voice said. _You could liberate the Ghetto with such magic._ A strong ally, perhaps, but there was no way he could trust Malfoy. This was the Blue Phoenix standing beside him. _He is alone ...,_ Hermione's voice whispered. But of course Harry was the one talking to the ghosts of the dead.

"No scar," Malfoy said and shook his head as if to emphasise his words.

Harry looked at himself. A puckered pink line was zigzagging down the middle of his chest. At three places clear liquid was oozing from it, otherwise the wound was all closed. When he looked up, Malfoy was staring at him. Quickly the other man turned away and picked up the bandages to wipe the liquid from the wound.

"Shouldn't have Apparated," he said haltingly. "Hurt you more." He raised his left arm in a strangely awkward gesture. "Wing was ... broken. Didn't heal right. Phoenix is not as strong as ... before." He shrugged in a lop-sided way. "You ... this will heal right. No scar." 

It was the most Malfoy had said since he and Harry had met in the old warehouse. Harry grabbed his wrist, and Malfoy pulled back immediately, a look more startled than angry in his eyes. 

"You don't talk much, Malfoy, do you?" 

Malfoy moved his hand in an angle that made it impossible for Harry to hold on. One sharp tug, and his wrist was free. "Talk," he spat jerking his head, "is not necessary." 

Not a sentiment the old Malfoy would have shared, for sure, but the fierce vehemence in his voice lacked nothing of his former self.

"You, Potter, need to eat," he repeated, reaching for the plate again and holding it so Harry could help himself to the slices of fruit. All the time he didn't take his eyes off Harry.

"How long, Malfoy?" Harry asked.

Again that impatient jerk of the head. "Couple of months."

"More like a year, I think."

Anger flashed dark in Malfoy's eyes, but he let it go, put down the plate and stepped in front of the round window. "Not much company," he said with his face turned towards the city. Grey clouds of fog floated in the dusky sky.

"I bet I'm the first one you've brought up here," Harry said.

There was no answer. Harry tried to raise himself on one elbow, but the movement made his chest hurt badly. He sank back into the pillows and twisted his head sideways so he could see Malfoy. Perhaps there was a slight shrug, but he was not sure. Malfoy stood very still. The sinking sun made his hair gleam a pinkish red, and Harry couldn't help thinking that he had become oddly beautiful. His body was still too thin and lanky, skin pulled painfully tight over bony elbows and hips. But his shoulders were broader than Harry remembered, his upper arms and chest smoothly muscled, the swell of his arse rounder and fuller than it should have been. The way he held his body erect, how he shifted his weight almost invisibly towards the window ... Perhaps some people (certainly not Harry) would have described the old Malfoy as elegant. But he had never possessed such unselfconscious, striking grace.

Harry looked beyond Malfoy, into the vivid colours of the sky. Such spectacular sunsets were rare in the City of Eternal Fog. The light spilled golden down the curve of Malfoy's shoulder, his muscled arm, the enticing sharpness of his hip. Harry felt himself getting hot and hard, and God, it had been way too long since he'd had sex with anyone but himself. Desire came and went for him these days, making him feel like a Spartan at times. Occasionally he would go out and pick up a willing stranger in a bar. Always male, for years now. And mostly Muggles. It was safer that way. He missed the thrill of magic, that taste of a lover's power during sex. But most of the wizards left in London carried the Mark, and he'd be damned if he used a glamour for casual sex with a Death Eater. He tore his eyes away from Malfoy's body, focused on the dark line of the horizon far off in the distance.

"Where are we?" Harry asked softly.

Malfoy turned to him, a bit too fast perhaps, as if he had waited for Harry to speak. "St Paul's." He waved his hand vaguely towards the middle of the room. "The bells. They are down there."

 _St Paul's._ So they were still in the City, in one of the towers of the Cathedral, presumably. All of a sudden it made sense that Harry could see nothing but clouded sky through the huge windows. They were a hundred metres above the streets, part of Voldemort's world and yet removed from it. 

Malfoy stepped closer and reached for the tin container. He held it out towards Harry with a look that was almost pleading. "You've been here three days," he said slowly, pronouncing every word with care. "Without food. You need to eat. Please."

Harry almost laughed. No prophecy had ever told him that one day Draco Malfoy would care whether he ate or starved to death. He took the cup and looked for a spoon, but didn't see one. Malfoy had turned back to the window. _Nice arse,_ Harry couldn't help thinking. He glanced into the cup, expecting some broth. But the cup was half filled with what seemed to be grains. Harry recognised the whitish kernels of corn and unshelled, striped sunflowers seeds. 

"I can't eat this." All of a sudden Harry wondered whether he had misjudged completely Malfoy's connection to the phoenix. He had seen it as a conveniently powerful shape for flying, for fighting from the air. But Malfoy seemed more used to the bird's plumage than clothes, he clearly hadn't had any real conversation in a year or longer. Peter Pettigrew had lived as a rat for half his life. It was one of the dangers of Animagus magic that the animal form overtook the man. But this was more than a wizard preferring by need or choice his Animagus' body. Malfoy was fucking offering him birdseed for _food_.

"You can't?" There was a look of baffled honesty in Malfoy's face. "You don't like it?" he asked uncertainly. "There is more … other." He took the container out of Harry's hand, then stood still.

"Blimey, Malfoy. I don't have a beak. I'm human." Harry's words sounded sharper than he intended. A strangely heated anger made his stomach cramp. He couldn't stand to see Malfoy's naked body any longer. On the other side of the room, the light of the sinking sun lit upon the phoenix's nest. It seemed ablaze with flames. For the first time Harry realised that an invisible line separated the room – the four-poster bed, the bedside cabinet, a desk and chair back in the corner on the one side, the phoenix's perch and the nest on the other. Small, round twigs had escaped from the nest and were strewn all over the floor. "Human like you," Harry whispered.

There was no answer. Malfoy considered him for another moment, then like before, seemed to come to some decision. He put the tin cup firmly back on the bedside cabinet, took the plate in his hand, never once looking at Harry. Carefully he sat down on the bed. It was the first time he had done that. The bed wasn't very wide, and Harry immediately felt the warmth of Malfoy's body, his thigh pressing against his hip. He wanted to move but Malfoy shook his head. Without a word he offered Harry the plate once more. _Here we go again,_ Harry thought as he popped one of the slices into his mouth. Malfoy's lips twitched, as he put his hand lightly on Harry's stomach. 

"Don't be afraid," he murmured. His long fingers moved across the blanket, then he was gone. The Blue Phoenix sat beside Harry, its lighter weight making the mattress sway. It raised its head and the red light caught in its silver crest. Harry let out a shallow breath. Carefully he edged away from the big bird. It was watching him from those grey eyes that were nothing like Fawkes's impenetrable black stare. They seemed to be misty and clear, like a spring. 

"Can you even see?" Harry whispered and stretched out his hand to touch the bird. Within the soft feathers of its front there were patches that looked as if they were moulting. When Harry smoothed them down he saw that the frayed spots formed criss-crossing stripes across the phoenix's chest. He stroked them gently, wondering how it would feel to touch Malfoy's chest and somehow make up for those scars from so long ago. 

A gentle nudging in his mind was the only warning he got. Harry's vision blurred, then he saw himself lying in the bed. The carvings in the headrest came into sharp focus, a peacock's fan between two stylised rose blossoms. His own face was ghostly pale, his hair dark as a raven against the pillows, his body a warm, living form underneath startlingly white covers. _Phoenix has very sharp eyes,_ Malfoy's voice said in his mind. _But less colour._ With that the image faded, as quickly as it had appeared. Harry stared at the bird that looked innocently enough. Back in Hogwarts Malfoy had been pretty good at Occlumency. In the last eighty years he obviously had mastered the art of Legilimency as well. 

"Damn it!" Harry let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding in. "Next time warn me." He shook his head to get rid off the odd sensation like cobwebs in his brain.

If he hadn't been sure that birds could not smirk – you needed a mouth to smirk, right? – Harry would have sworn the phoenix smirked at him. A shudder went through the bird as Harry stroked his beak. It stepped back and lifted its wings. The left one hung lower and to the side as if it pained the bird to have it stretched out all the way. Harry was shocked to see the Dark Mark on its underside. It looked like it was stencilled with bruise-coloured ink into the very barbs of the feathers. The bird cocked its head, and Harry wondered whether Malfoy did not want him to see that the Mark was stamped even into his Animagus form. But then the phoenix stretched its long neck, and in one heaving motion vomited a small ball, half an inch wide, the colour and consistency of wet, slime-covered sand. It spit it on the plate where it rolled between the fruit, then the bird started heaving again to bring up another one.

Harry wanted to move away, get up, leave, he wanted to yell at Malfoy, make him stop this bloody bird shite, to behave like a human being, for God's sake. But all he managed was to bring his hand towards his own breast and bury himself deeper into the pillows. 

The phoenix regurgitated six balls before it lowered itself back onto the bed. It was shaking from the exertion and had its eyes closed. The balls amidst the red-and-yellow peach slices looked like one of Aunt Timila's more daring Indian desserts. He should leave. Harry thought he was strong enough to Apparate, and it was no use staying here any longer. Malfoy was mental, had merged with the Blue Phoenix or something. Had become one of the strange magical creatures, which multiplied under Voldemort's reign, Red Scaly Vipertooth, the Spiteful Child, the Lethifold Chieftain of the Inferi. He was as dangerous an enemy as any of them, no matter that he was feeding Harry like some brooding mother hen.

A sweet aroma filled the room. It reminded Harry of caramelised popcorn, of all things. He had had caramelised popcorn once, on a rare occasion when Uncle Vernon had allowed him to accompany Dudley to the movies. This smell was different, with a fruitier taste to it. Harry's stomach grumbled, and he really was hungry and –

"Fuck, Malfoy, stop it," he said with a disgusted look towards the plate. "And change back, will you?"

He had hardly finished the sentence when Malfoy was kneeling beside him. His posture was odd, like he was folded upon his thighs. Immediately, he shifted into a more comfortable position. Harry could feel him tremble through the blankets, there was a sheen of sweat all over his naked body. The way he sat, Harry could not help notice his cock nestled within a patch of dark blond hair. Could not help wonder how it would feel to stroke the brownish-pink flesh, to feel Malfoy get hard under his fingers. Malfoy, who'd worn the Mark for more than eighty years, who had been a loyal Death Eater last Harry had heard. Malfoy, who was the Blue Phoenix.

Still the familiar heat spread in his neck, rose to his cheeks, and Harry forced himself to focus on the food. Even half digested, it _was_ food. The enticing smell was fainter, no longer amplified by Malfoy's magic, and still Harry felt his mouth water. Here he was, hungry, horny, about to eat regurgitated seeds. He had to be going mental. And definitely feeling much better. The thin pink line on his chest had all but disappeared. He should Apparate home, let Aunt Timila take care of feeding him, let his own fist deal with that other hunger. Instead Harry pushed himself up on his right elbow and reached for the ball closest to him.

It did taste a bit like soggy popcorn, without the crunch, but not nearly as slimy as he had feared. There was a sourness underneath, like half fermented soybeans, but all in all it tasted okay. And Harry hadn't realised how hungry he was. He ate all six balls and finished off the peach, too. Only when he licked the juice from his fingers did he become aware of Malfoy's bright smile. He practically beamed at Harry, eyes sparkling with what Harry could only guess was intense joy. 

"You liked it." Malfoy sounded smug and oddly satisfied, as he moved closer and put his hand casually on Harry's thigh.

And yes, Harry guessed he did like it – bird food or not – considering that he had devoured the stuff in no time. Malfoy moved to put away the empty plate, but Harry stopped him.

"Let me clean up." He pushed himself into a sitting position, with Malfoy's hand ready to support him. His muscles were sore all over, and there was a tightness in his chest, as if someone had punched the air from his lungs. Nothing more. He leaned over to the bedside cabinet, picked up his wand and Vanished the plate with a quick twist of the wrist.

Malfoy watched him curiously. When Harry cast the non-verbal Spell, his eyes widened. Harry leaned back into the pillows. He was short of breath, from the ache in his breast. He should leave, but it felt so good to just lie here in the warmth of the summer evening, with someone close to him.

"Your magic," Malfoy said, then surprised Harry by stretching out next to him, arms behind his head. "It is very strong."

Harry nodded absently. He kept his eyes on the luminous sky, trying hard to ignore the scent of sweat mixed in with the cinnamon that was always around Malfoy. Trying hard to ignore the pale flesh on the inside of Malfoy's upper arm, the blond strands of hair half hiding his delicately shaped ear. Trying very hard. Outside, the sun set over the thick four-columned pillars which jutted out of the grey water – all that was left of Black Friar's Bridge. Dark fog rolled in from the East, and Harry couldn't help but shiver. It was the Dementors' doing, there shouldn't be fog during a sunset that colourful and clear. Malfoy must have seen it, too, for he shifted closer. Or maybe he was only responding to an instinctive movement Harry had made, he could not be sure. But since Harry had eaten, there was an intimacy in Malfoy's gestures, as if he somehow had accepted Harry as a friend. _A fledgling,_ Hermione's voice whispered in his head, and he banished the thought at once. His body certainly would not have such explanations, logical as they might seem – and there he went again, debating logic with the dead. Malfoy was so close that he could hear his easy breathing. It took all Harry had to conceal his rising erection. He bent his right knee a bit so the tent in the blanket would be less obvious. This turned out to be a very bad move. Malfoy, who had been quietly watching the sunset, became aware of Harry's fidgeting. It took him a mere fraction of a second to catch on.

Definitely a smirk. The old Malfoy smirk even. Harry felt light and aroused and inexplicably happy, no matter his predicament. 

"How long, Potter?" Malfoy whispered as he turned towards Harry and cupped his erection.

Harry moaned loudly, couldn't help but push his hips up to get more of that exquisite touch. "Couple of months," he gasped, then laughed, as he realised that he'd repeated Malfoy's answer from before, word for word. 

"More like a year, I think," Malfoy said. There was laughter in his voice, too, as he restated Harry's words carefully, like a line from a play he was learning by heart. He was stroking Harry's cock lightly, much too lightly, but even with pants and blankets in between, Harry knew he couldn't last long.

"Not much company," he said and it hit him all of a sudden – that despite his nightly dinners at Aunt Timila's, despite the frequent meetings at number twelve, Grimmauld Place, when they planned out the refugee treks, he hadn't had real company for years. He turned to the side and touched Malfoy's hair. Lifted the strands from his ear and kissed, _kissed_ the soft skin stretching over Malfoy's jaw below the ear. A shiver ran through Malfoy's body and he moved away, took his hand from Harry's cock. For a second Harry thought the kiss had been too much, that he had misjudged the other man's – _he thinks he's a bird, Harry, damn it!_ – intentions. But Malfoy simply lifted the blankets, moved underneath and slid close. He reached for Harry's glasses, removed them, using a non-verbal _Mobili_ to have them float onto the bedside cabinet. His fingers tugged at Harry's pants, pushed them down without a moment of hesitation. He closed his fist tightly around the base of Harry's cock and pulled upwards in one deft stroke.

Harry almost cried out. The grip of those strong fingers was too much, the pleasure so intense it cut through him like a blade. He ground his hips forward, trapped Malfoy's fingers between their bodies. Malfoy went still, waiting for Harry to move.

"Slower," Harry croaked. He felt more than saw Malfoy's nod as he buried his face in Malfoy's neck, unable to keep himself from licking the sweaty skin, tasting its salty softness, the cinnamon palpable on his tongue, his nose and mouth full of the powerful, indescribable magic of another wizard. _Malfoy._ "I want this to last a while," he whispered. 

He shifted backward, but Malfoy simply held his cock, squeezing and releasing it ever so lightly, again and again. It was so incredibly arousing that Harry wanted to scream at him to get him off for real, but all he did was push his hips forward whenever Malfoy's fingers tightened.

For a minute there was no sound but Harry's ragged breathing and the soft rustling of the blankets. Then Malfoy whispered in Harry's hair, "I bet I'm the first Death Eater to toss you off."

It should have killed the mood, but it didn't. Malfoy had repeated Harry's earlier words, he had added some of his own. He sounded completely at ease as he made the tasteless joke, a joke the old Malfoy would have made. Harry put his arm around Malfoy's waist, pulled him closer so he could feel the heat emanating from the other man's groin. Malfoy was still half soft, a far cry from how hard Harry was, but he got the message and pressed Harry's cock towards him. Harry frotted against him, frantically now, more aroused than he could remember having been in a long time. Malfoy's thumb rubbed over the head of Harry's cock, spreading pre-come over the entire length of his erection. Harry felt slippery and loose, his mouth sucking at Malfoy's throat, his hips jerking forward without thought, pure instinct, set on release. Malfoy gently moved the foreskin up and down, then tightened his fist around the length of Harry's cock and stroked him firmly. Harry was never quiet during sex, and he couldn't be now, not when Malfoy felt _so_ bloody good. He groaned loudly as he fucked Malfoy's hand with a vengeance. Spasms made his balls contract, his back arched as he buried himself even deeper against Malfoy's body. There was no room anymore for Malfoy to continue his strokes, but it didn't matter because Harry was so close, all he needed was the feel of this _skin_ , this _heat_. 

Malfoy seemed to understand, for he simply kept his fingers tight around Harry's cock and pressed his groin against it. Then - without any warning - he brought his lips to Harry's ear and licked the auricle, lazily, sloppily, and Harry wanted nothing more than the taste of this wet tongue. He twisted his head, searched desperately for Malfoy's mouth, and found it open and welcoming. "Potter," Malfoy whispered, and to feel those lips ghost over his own pushed Harry over the brink. The red light of sunset had been fading the entire time they fucked, but now it flared up, a sea of fire obscuring Harry's vision. He squeezed his eyes shut, cried out, as his body convulsed in orgasm. He held on to Malfoy's waist, digging deeply into soft flesh. Wave upon wave of pleasure ripped through him, making him shudder and pant, as hot spunk splattered onto Malfoy's belly, his groin, his thighs – 

Purple light enveloped them as they lay quietly under the blanket. Eventually Harry's heartbeat slowed and he could breathe and think again. Malfoy still cradled his spent cock. When Harry stirred, he let him go. Harry felt the surge of a Cleaning Spell and grabbed Malfoy's wrist quickly.

"No," he said. "Don't get rid of the mess yet. I like …" He squeezed his hand between their bodies, ran his fingertips through the spilled semen and smeared it onto his own belly. "I like to touch it," he whispered. Now Malfoy must think him mental. Perverted, at the very least. But who if not Malfoy would understand? "It reminds me that I'm still human. That I'll get to die eventually, no matter how long I'll have to wait." He wrapped his hand around Malfoy's limp prick and caressed it, using his spunk as lubricant. Malfoy didn't seem to mind. After all, _he_ had offered Harry regurgitated seeds for food.

"Killing Curse," Malfoy said. His hips moved ever so slightly in response to Harry's touch. "You did not die."

It was a statement as much as a question, and Harry quietly explained about the link that bound his life to Voldemort's, about the eighth, the mysterious lost Horcrux, the one the Dark Lord had created when he'd killed that Ravenclaw boy. That Harry needed to find this last piece of Voldemort's soul, how he had searched it for the last seventy years, and how he still was not one step closer to finding it. He didn't go into details about all that had gone wrong since the Battle of Hogwarts, most of it was common knowledge, anyway. Before she had been given the Dementor's Kiss, Rita Skeeter had described in lurid details Voldemort's usurpation of the Ministry of Magic and the many ways in which _The Boy Who Lived Has Failed_ – the title of the third of her series of unauthorised Harry Potter biographies. 

While he talked, Hermione's voice was whispering in his head. _He's one of the most powerful servants of Voldemort. And he trusts you. Look how relaxed he is, letting you fondle him when he doesn't even get hard. This is your one chance, Harry. Use it. Use him._ Harry looked at Malfoy who listened with closed eyes, not interrupting him once. He had spread his legs slightly, giving Harry more room to explore. Harry was sure he enjoyed the touch, but as Hermione had noted so very perceptively – _and would that woman please stay out of his bed!_ – he was not responding in any way that Harry would call sexual. Hermione would not have liked his blunt approach, but there was no clever, underhanded way to ask this. Either Malfoy told him, or he didn't. Harry wrapped his fingers around Malfoy's balls, weighing them in his hand, then he said softly: "Do you know where Voldemort is?"

Perhaps he should have realised that no matter how close his connection to the bird, Malfoy was still a Slytherin and knew all about subtle ball-crushing threats and the pit-falls of pillow talk. He got hold of Harry's hand, moved it away from his groin, cradled it to his chest. Harry's questioning look was met by a cool, scrutinizing glance.

"Not many know where the Dark Lord hides. He calls, we obey. Cattermole gives orders." Malfoy stopped, then added, "General Caesar Pericles Cattermole." The contempt showing in his voice would have made the old Malfoy proud.

So Cattermole was their leader. This was useful intelligence, to be sure. Longbottom might be able to do something with it. He was the strategist of the resistance movement, the one who kept track of the Death Eaters' families, who knew which of their weaknesses to exploit. Harry decided right there and then that he would never tell Longbottom the location of the Blue Phoenix's lair. 

"So none of you have seen Voldemort, either? He is not residing in Buckingham Palace? Somewhere outside of London, then?"

Malfoy shook his head. "The Dark Lord is here. In the City." He turned his left arm so that the Mark was showing. An explanation of sorts, perhaps. Harry knew for a fact that Voldemort's hide-out could not be far away. The link was strong and in the past it had always gone weaker the further the distance between them. Maybe it was similar with the Dark Mark. The lines on Malfoy's forearm shimmered red underneath his skin, unfaded like he'd taken the Mark just yesterday. He stared at it, said softly, "The Dark Lord does not show himself. Not ever."

His face was hidden in the shadows, only his eyes shone brightly as he watched Harry. It was rapidly getting dark, with the last rays of the setting sun illuminating the back half of the tower. The phoenix's half.

Harry moved closer, searched for Malfoy's mouth. He kissed him slowly, gently, and Malfoy responded with a need that made Harry think he did want sex after all. "Do you," he whispered, "want to fuck? Or have me suck you off?" God, he sounded like a whore negotiating with a customer. "I'm easy, Malfoy. Just tell me what you want." _Easy, Harry?_ Hermione's voice butting in again, her sarcasm so dear that Harry had to smile in the dark. 

Malfoy was breathing unevenly, as he whispered in Harry's ear, "Would you – ?" He broke off and leaned his forehead against Harry's shoulder. He was shivering, and Harry pulled him close. Impotence would be his first guess. That they were both men was not an issue, of that Harry was certain. It had always been an open secret that Malfoy was gay, even during his marriage to the younger of the Greengrass sisters. But he could have been hurt in ways that made sex impossible. Harry saw it all the time among the victims of the war. And Malfoy had been hurt badly, if the phoenix's powers hadn't been able to heal the injury that had caused the damage to his arm.

Malfoy leaned his head back so he could look at Harry. It was dark now in the room, only the electric light glowed from below. It caught in Malfoy's hair, but Harry could not make out the expression on his face.

Malfoy seemed to come to a decision, though, for he moved even closer to Harry, brought their hips together and pushed his cock against Harry's groin. He traced Harry's back with trembling fingers, moved over Harry's shoulder, lingered on his neck and then very gently touched Harry's hair. "Would you stay still? Like this?" he whispered. "Not move. Like … like before when … when …" He didn't finish but pressed harder, and Harry remembered those moments of stillness shortly before he'd come. 

He nodded, said, "Sure." If this was all it took to make Malfoy happy in bed – he would have let Malfoy fuck him, and it was a rare treat to have Harry Potter bottom for anyone.

For long minutes they just lay together, their cocks squeezed against each other. Harry's face was so close to Malfoy's throat, he could feel the rapid beat of his pulse. The position was not exactly comfortable, and the muscles in his thighs and buttocks began to twitch. Then, for no reason that Harry could see, Malfoy became aroused. He put his hand firmly on Harry's arse, held him close, his breathing went shallow and fast, as his cock lengthened and thickened against Harry's groin. The sensation was so oddly exciting that Harry felt his own cock move in response. Not impotence then, and Malfoy certainly was bigger than Harry had expected. Still, he doubted the man could come like this. But even though they did not move at all, there was an agonisingly delicious built-up of tension, with Malfoy pressing harder and harder against him, and Harry doing his best to offer the resistance he seemed to crave. Small needy sounds were coming from Malfoy's lips, his fingers were digging painfully in Harry's buttocks. 

Then, as unexpectedly as it had started, Malfoy released the pressure with one long stuttering breath. He was still hard, and Harry, with his cock freed all at once, couldn't help but rub against Malfoy's erection. It took him a few moments to get a grip on himself, and only then did he notice the tell-tale signs. Malfoy was straining to keep his body still, but he couldn't keep his shoulders from shaking. Silent tears ran down his nose and cheek, warm tears that dripped onto the pillow and into Harry's hair. Harry wanted to reach for him, to give whatever comfort he could, when he saw the look in Malfoy's face. Such forlorn, such desperate longing. Malfoy was staring at something in the dark, and Harry turned, startled, even though he felt no danger. The tower room was unchanged but for the night which flooded darkly through the windows. Malfoy was looking straight at the phoenix's nest, and Harry realised that he must have looked at it the whole time he had been crushing his erection against Harry. 

A memory stirred in Harry's mind, of a mournful lament, and then a sudden silence so fused with unbearable loss and the certain knowledge that everyone he cared for was gone from this world – 

He turned back to the other man, put one careful hand on his chest. "Malfoy." 

Malfoy moved his face towards him. Harry recognised that stricken look of grief. From the warehouse, from the moment when he had called Malfoy by his name.

"There is only one phoenix in the world, isn't there?"

Malfoy stared at him, swallowed. _Just one,_ his lips mouthed without a sound.

"Is it your phoenix?" Harry had to ask. He knew next to nothing of the magical bird, but something extraordinary must have happened when a phoenix Animagus was all that was left of its kind.

Malfoy got a hold of Harry's hand, pressed it against his sternum. He nodded.

"Fawkes ...?"

"Gone. Dead." His grip on Harry's hand became painful, but Harry didn't mind, not even when Malfoy pushed both of their hands down on his stomach, into the cold stickiness of Harry's come. And moved them lower, wrapping both Harry's and his own smeared fingers around his erection. 

"Phoenix is … not human." He shuddered violently, and Harry moved closer, tried to kiss his throat, but Malfoy wouldn't let him.

"I … I won't get to die," he whispered. "No matter how bloody long I wait."

* *

[](http://www.tate.org.uk/modern/exhibitions/jeffwall/infocus/section5/img1.shtm)

Jeff Wall, After "Invisible Man" by Ralph Ellison, 1999–2000,  
transparency in lightbox 1740 x 2505 mm

_A barefooted, dark-skinned man is sitting in a room, a green chair and two phonographs his only company. Papers are strewn around, wet dishes are waiting to be dried off. Chequered pieces of cloth are hung over wooden poles under the low ceiling. Photographs, clippings and notes pinned to the cork insulation of the wall, to coarse blankets shutting close the fireplace that seems too big and elegant for the cave-like quarters. And light bulbs, hundreds of them, attached to the ceiling like crammed bushels of glistening grapes, like the shining, multifaceted eyes of an insect, strings of them or single naked bulbs descending on cords from the ceiling. Only some of them are lit, around the sink and above one of the phonographs, but their cold white light outshines the muted sunlight trickling in through the small window high under the ceiling._

When Harry had woken earlier, Malfoy had been gone. There'd been no trace of the Blue Phoenix, either. Harry had put on his clothes that he found Spelled clean and folded on a chest beside the desk, then he had ventured down the stairs in search of tea. It was here, in the low, wood-panelled room, that he stumbled upon the Muggle artwork. 

It was a photograph, mounted on a light box almost as high as Harry and at least two and a half metres wide. Hung on the wall just opposite the stairs, it was the only source of light in the windowless room. Harry didn't know much about Muggle art, but he had seen this work before. Long ago when he'd still done things like take the kids to the St. John's Day festival or on a trip to a Muggle museum. The light bulbs glowed like real Muggle lighting. 

_And why, Draco Malfoy, would you own such a thing?_

The room was as large as the one above, but its low ceiling gave it a basement feel. Once it must have been the ringing room. Lined up against the walls Harry could make out the shapes of the enormous bells. A smaller one stood just to the side of the stairs, perhaps thirty inches in width. Harry sensed its magicked sound, a low-pitched melodious tone. A coat of arms – scales and cauldron below an ornamental strip of belladonna leaves – was embossed into the metal with the dedication _The Gift of the High Order of Potions Makers, H. B. Prince Esq. Master, MDCCCLXXVI_ inscribed underneath. Malfoy had been a Potions Maker back when Harry had headed the Auror Office. He had been among the group of Death Eaters that had been sent to Azkaban for poisoning London's water supplies. Thousands of Muggles had died before the Unspeakables had come up with the antidote. 

Harry took a sip from his tea as he stared at the Muggle art. It should feel alien but didn't – beside the iron stove and the ancient cupboard where Harry had discovered a silver tea caddy, half filled with Darjeeling, and expensive porcelain dishes, all adorned with the Malfoy crest. There were no pots, no pans, no food but a tin can of rusk, a brand that had gone out of business decades ago. Everything was spotlessly clean. Harry wondered whether Malfoy was down here much. He wondered, too, when Malfoy had moved into the tower and Transformed parts of this room into a kitchen. Clearly he hadn't used the adjoining bathroom in years. The water from the tap had run a rusty brown for several minutes before it cleared. And still – the dim room felt so much more like home than the lofty space above. The dark-skinned man on the photograph never turned his head, but Harry was sure he'd agree.

He put the cup down on the counter of the cupboard to examine how Malfoy had created the lighting effect. There was so much magic in the tower that anything electric was bound to malfunction. When Harry bent down before the picture, he heard the soft flapping of wings on the floor above. Seconds later Malfoy came down the stairs. He was wearing shoes and trousers under dark blue robes. The corner of his mouth twitched when he saw Harry staring at him. 

With a nod towards the picture he said: "All that is left from the Tate's contemporary art collection, I'm afraid."

Harry rose. "Is that why you have it hanging here?"

Malfoy shrugged. "I like the light," he said simply as he stepped closer to the picture. Which really was the oddest thing to say for a wizard as proud of all things pure-blood as Malfoy was. As the old Malfoy had been, rather. The one Harry had thought to have died in Azkaban more than half a century ago.

He watched him, so much his former self with the expensive robes and the haughty posture, which signalled the pride of ownership as much as appreciation. His voice was still scratchy, but it sounded smoother than the days before. Also, Malfoy no longer spoke in one-syllable words. Something had happened last night, something that had made him remember his humanity. 

As if he'd read Harry's thoughts, Malfoy turned to him. "I want to apologise, Potter. For not wearing any clothes around you." He dropped his gaze and if Harry was not mistaken, there was a blush rising to his cheeks. The words came out in a whisper. "Feeding you phoenix's food." 

"I quite enjoyed the sight of your bare arse." Harry put a hand on Malfoy's shoulder. At once Malfoy leaned against him, as if he had been waiting for Harry's touch. When Harry tentatively put his other arm around his neck, Malfoy pulled him close. 

"You certainly did," he murmured, seeking Harry's mouth. 

They kissed almost shyly, and Harry shivered. Malfoy's lips were freezing cold. But his body underneath the robes was warm and solid in a way that made Harry want to touch his skin. "You went out?" he whispered.

Malfoy nodded and stepped out of the embrace. He lightly shook the right sleeve, then raised his arm, strangely illuminated by the Muggle picture, wand in hand. Harry would have been alarmed, but Malfoy stood perfectly relaxed, a smug smile on his face, as he held out the wand for Harry to take.

"You're giving me your wand?" Harry uncertainly reached for it. "But why? I mean, I've seen you do wandless magic, it's certainly not that y–"

The beating of a tiny heart. Rapidly, like a bird's. But with a mind behind it so vicious, no animal was capable of such malevolence. And was that really a smug smile on Malfoy's face? Or not rather a devious, scheming one? A smile that said as much as _Soon I'll haul you in, Potter, and then it's the Dementor's Kiss for you_? Harry could practically hear the snicker in that scratchy voice. _Flash Man stinks!_ Malfoy had betrayed him to the Death Eaters, likely had cast the Killing Curse himself, brought him up here to play his sick games, used Harry's loneliness to get into bed with him, made him come like a horny school-boy without losing control once, without –

Harry flung the wand away from him. He stood with his back pressed against the cupboard, with no idea how he'd got there, his own wand drawn and at the ready. "It's a bloody Horcrux!" he screamed and was about to cast a spell, any spell – _Protego, Finite,_ whatever, but certainly not _Accio wand,_ because he couldn't bear to touch this … this thing again.

"Harry." Malfoy's voice. And again, softer: "Harry." 

It brought him to his senses, calmed him somewhat. Broad daylight streamed down the staircase and he could see Malfoy clearly. He had gone pale, a distraught expression on his face. Their eyes met, then they both stepped towards the Horcrux. When Harry bent down before it, Malfoy reached for his wrist, held it firmly until Harry's hand stopped shaking. "You don't need your wand," he said quietly.

"This … on the floor …" Harry swallowed, pushed his wand back up his sleeve. It wouldn't protect him against anything the Horcrux could do to him. 

He looked at the stick of darkly stained wood. It was much longer than both Malfoy's and his own wand. And definitely not hawthorn, he saw that now. Sensed, too, the Thestral hair vibrating within the core. He couldn't imagine what it would do to a wand to have a Horcrux forced into it, meld with it to some degree. 

"It's the Elder Wand." His voice sounded incredulous even to himself. Never, since that first moment when Hermione had suggested that another Horcrux existed, had he imagined that Voldemort had chosen the Elder Wand to house this last sliver of his fractured soul. _The Deathstick, the Wand of Destiny._ It made so much sense. 

Malfoy nodded silently, his eyes intent on Harry.

"Damn it, why didn't you tell me?" Harry snapped, unable to hold back the words. "Do you enjoy fucking with my mind, Malfoy?" His anger was always close to the surface these days, and he regretted the words the moment they had left his lips. The insinuations of the Horcrux were still vivid in his thoughts, but of course they were his own nagging doubts, not anything Malfoy had done. 

And if he'd expected Malfoy to leave or revert to the taciturn bird-man creature, he was mistaken. Without losing as much as a beat, Malfoy shot back, "You're the bloody Master of the Wand, Potter. How should I know you'd freak out just touching it?" He sounded pissed off, but there was none of the younger Malfoy's venom.

Harry reached for him, an apology on his lips, when pain slashed through his scar like a barbed whip – _danger,_ Horcrux, Potter –, Legilimency so forceful that Harry's mind was flooded by images against his will, thin broken bones, greenish-brown feathers strewn everywhere, the dragon figurine with the black stone eye, oddly twisted bodies lined up in a shadowed hall. The jumbled images were so familiar that Harry reacted by instinct, used his Occlumency and slammed up a wall against Voldemort's panicked, furious intrusion into his mind. He found himself on his hands and knees, groping blindly for the Elder Wand. 

"So the Dark Lord found out that we have his soul." Malfoy's smile was positively devious now. He knelt in front of Harry, watching him curiously but touching neither him nor the wand. "That was fast. I underestimated your link into the Dark Lord's mind." 

Harry tried to catch his breath. "The Dark Lord's link into _my_ mind, rather." He sat up, and stabs of pain shot through his scar. "Shit," he sighed, rubbing knuckles firmly across his forehead. He was in for a major headache. Forced Legilimency always did that to him. "I don't even know why there still is a link. My body is no longer a Horcrux. I should have got rid of that monster back in the Forbidden Forest."

"When Mother saved your life."

Harry nodded. Malfoy knew all of that. This was old history, told and retold in every one of Skeeter's biographies. It had saved Narcissa from Azkaban. And perhaps Lucius Malfoy's life would have been spared, too, if he had publicly renounced his anti-Muggle-born agenda. But Lucius had been a pure-blood politician to the end, even funnelled the Malfoy money into the re-emerging Death Eater movement once it became evident that Voldemort was alive and kicking back. And as far as Harry knew, Draco Malfoy had shared all of his father's prejudiced beliefs. 

"The Elder Wand may be the link," Malfoy said.

Harry stared at him. The … wand? "But how … I mean, it … I couldn't even keep the thing around." 

He remembered all of a sudden that time long ago, when he'd been obsessed with the Elder Wand. When he had felt compelled to check on it, often four times a day. He had performed magic with it back then, against better judgement and against Hermione's advice. Never Unforgivables, but also never quite harmless Spells. One time, back in his Auror days, he had used it during the interrogation of a prisoner. Even today Harry wasn't sure what really had happened to make the woman, a high-rank Death Eater, spill names and the location of Voldemort's headquarters. It had been her confession which had led to the execution of Lucius Malfoy. In the end Ginny had persuaded Harry to store the wand at Gringotts. All that weirdness - Harry had thought it was the Elder Wand itself, when all along it had been the Horcrux's evil influence. "But … but I didn't even know the wand still existed until just now. I thought it was destroyed with the Gringotts vaults. It could not –"

But of course it could. The Horcruxed Elder Wand was lying in front of him, right there on the floor. Malfoy had brought it from somewhere. And nothing, absolutely nothing had survived the devastation of the vaults. Griphook had assured Harry of that. Which could only mean that Voldemort … that Malfoy –

Malfoy was watching him, waiting for him to figure it out for himself. Slowly Harry picked up the Elder Wand, the mental blockade firmly in place by Occlumency, so neither Voldemort nor this last piece of his soul could affect his mind. Malfoy rose, too, a smile on his lips. _So the Dark Lord found out that we have his soul._ We. A strong ally, Hermione had called him. 

"Are you all right?" Malfoy came closer, still smiling. He put a warm hand on Harry's hip. 

Harry stepped back quickly. "Where did you get the Horcrux from, Malfoy?"

Malfoy stiffened visibly. He turned towards the illuminated picture, seemed to study for a moment the Muggle at the centre of it. Then he shook his head. "I can't tell you." His voice was soft, but Harry could hear the steel in it. 

"You took it from Voldemort, didn't you? You know where he is hiding."

Malfoy stared at him, hurt and disbelief flashed across his face. Then, from one moment to the next, all expression drained from it, as if Malfoy had put on a mask, shutting off his emotions by force of will. It was a skill Snape had perfected, one that the old Malfoy had never quite managed in school. He was good at it now, at least for the few seconds it took him to turn and start for the stairs. One foot on the bottom stair, he stopped. The daylight from above sharply outlined Malfoy's slender shape. From below, the glow from the Muggle picture caught in the silk trimmings of his robes, the polished leather of his belt. The thought came to Harry, unbidden and strangely familiar, that the line between phoenix and human dividing the tower room above was but one of many lines cutting through Malfoy's life. Last night Malfoy had trusted him completely. Why was it so hard for Harry to trust him now? _Last night you were with the phoenix Animagus. This is Malfoy. Who chose sides long before the phoenix came into his life. Use him, Harry. Don't fall for him._ Damn Hermione and her bloody impeccable logic. Harry couldn't argue with it, but logic brought you only so far. He was holding the Horcrux in his hand. And there was nothing logical about Malfoy giving it to him.

He stepped forward, when Malfoy started to speak, his back still turned to Harry. "We were … informed that the Dark Lord was about to set … Fiendfyre to Gringotts. When I … cleared the Malfoy vault, I cleared yours, too. I … I've always taken a special … interest in you." A short laugh, but it didn't sound happy. Malfoy's hand was curled in a death grip around the banister. His voice would break, go husky, he was clearly searching for words. But he was speaking quickly, eager to make Harry understand. "I found the Elder Wand and took it. I had been its Master once. I … I felt a certain … entitlement to it. The Dark Lord wanted it, but he came too late searching your vault. I … Phoenix thought it wise not to give … give him the Elder Wand. Back then he was still trying to get the Deathly Hallows … reunited." Malfoy stopped, he was breathing hard. 

"The Invisibility Cloak is at Hogwarts," Harry said quietly. "He will never lay his hands on it." Give and take. One secret for another. It was what trust meant in this new world.

Malfoy turned to him, his eyes shining bright. His smile was uncertain, and clearly talking that much had exhausted him. His hand slid along on the banister, and he simply sat down on the stairs. With a few steps Harry was at his side and before he knew what he was doing, he put the Elder Wand to the side and gently stroked Malfoy's hair. Malfoy looked up to him in astonishment, turned his head into Harry's touch. 

"It wouldn't work for me," he said with a nod towards the wand. "You… you said you couldn't keep it around, I couldn't either. Phoenix hates it. When you told me … about the missing Horcrux, I knew it had to be lodged in the wand." 

"So you had it hidden somewhere away from the tower?" Harry sat beside Malfoy on the wooden floor, his back against the banister.

Malfoy nodded. "I can't tell you where," he repeated. 

There was such stubbornness in his tired voice, Harry had to smile. "I got that, Malfoy." 

"And I have no idea where the Dark Lord is hiding." 

Harry looked at the wand, smooth elder on the aged pinewood of the stair. He had the Horcrux. Suddenly he felt so happy, he could have laughed out loud. He took the Elder Wand, threw it up into the air, made it spin just before it reached the ceiling, had it twirl above their heads like he had once seen a juggler do with silver batons in Diagon Alley, then caught it in his outstretched hand. He could be mistaken, but there seemed to be a light snap in the wood, a lessening of the tension in the Thestral hair.

Malfoy watched him, shaking his head. "You certainly have changed since Hogwarts, Potter."

"You just never knew me." Harry pushed the wand up his sleeve to lie beside his holly wand. "I've searched for this blasted thing forever."

"I figured as much." Malfoy got up, held out his hand towards Harry.

Harry let himself be drawn into Malfoy's embrace. Sunlight warmed his back, a sensation like an old, half-forgotten memory. The sun never shone in the Dark City. Malfoy's arms tightened around his waist, he said softly: "Breakfast, Potter? There are dates left. And raspberries. They are Phoenix's favourite."

Harry pulled Malfoy closer, kissed him softly. "There's one more thing," he whispered.

Malfoy stood very still, waited for him to continue. 

"I need to know what happened to you. About Phoenix." Harry was trembling for no good reason, certain that Hermione would not have understood at all. This was not about anything logic could explain. "Will you tell me?"

Malfoy relaxed in his arms. "You really do want to know?" He sounded surprised, but then Harry felt Malfoy's light laughter against his hair. "I don't think I can tell you. Not like this, talking …" He took a deep breath. "But if you let me, I will show you."

*

Draco lies on a pile of rotten straw in the corner of the cell. He is naked but for a pair of soiled pants. His stomach is a hollow cave below his sharp ribs, his skin the colour of cheap parchment. There is no way of telling that his straggled hair was once blond. A blood-stained cloth is wrapped around his shoulder. Down the inside of his arm runs an angry red line that speaks of poisoned blood as clearly as the fever which burns him up. Flies feast on the bowl of food at the door. A constant trickle of water runs down the broken toilet.

The stormy rush of wings wakes Draco. He knows he is dying and mistakes the scarlet vision of Fawkes the phoenix for a fever dream. When he hears Dumbledore's voice, he thinks the old headmaster is Death. _I've come to show you my mercy,_ Dumbledore tells him. The magical bird stares at him with hungry eyes, but when he comes close, he spills warm tears into Draco's wounds, makes him drink the tears, too. They taste sweet and fresh, like the purest water. As his wounds close and his blood is cleansed, Draco starts to think that he may survive after all. It is a miracle to him, nothing that he could have possibly imagined.

He feels no pain as Fawkes slashes open the skin at his side, just below his ribs. Fawkes spits a purple worm into the gash that closes at once. The worm feeds on Draco's juices, blood, lymph, gall, urine, the acids from his stomach. Well nourished, it brings forth feathers of a brilliant dark blue. Draco finds himself on a bare rock in the middle of a stream. Fawkes sits beside him in the bright light of the sun. _Shine, bennu,_ he says in Draco's mind. Then the phoenix sings for the very last time in this world. His song is so beautiful that Draco, who has not shed a tear in years, cries like a child.

*

It was one of those rare mornings when the ever-present fog had burned off over the city. Leaning up on his elbow, Harry could see as far as Hyde Park and even the collapsed roof of Paddington Station. Malfoy was lying on the bed beside him, the mother-of-pearl buttons of his white shirt closed all the way up. They were both fully clothed, only their shoulders touching. He could still feel the soft pressure at his temples, where Malfoy had put his fingertips to facilitate Legilimency.

He had not shown Harry everything, had tried to hold back one memory that Harry guessed was not Malfoy's own. It had felt ancient, like something from another time, and certainly not human. Fawkes's memory, then, but even Fawkes had seemed too young for it. _A city of white clouds, a fiery horizon, a ruby at the core of a blinding light_ – the images felt like they did not belong to the memory of one bird alone, but were rather passed down through the ages, from one phoenix to the next. Harry was sure Malfoy had not meant for him to see them, but they were so interwoven with the memory he'd shared with Harry that he couldn't help projecting them. And while Harry had felt Malfoy's despair, confusion and then his exhilarated joy, the one emotion that had gripped him whenever he caught a glimpse of the alien memory, was fear. Bottomless, gut-wrenching fear. Harry was certain that this was the reason why Malfoy did not want him to see this particular memory, but there was more. Malfoy was an accomplished Legilimens. Harry had seen what at least some part of Malfoy had wanted to show him. 

He moved closer and put his hand on Malfoy's shoulder. Malfoy smiled with closed eyes. The sun was shining on his face, and Harry just had to kiss those pink lips. They tasted like raspberries and tea, and underneath, always, the sharpness of cinnamon.

"Malfoy," Harry whispered, "your phoenix – does it have a name? Like Fawkes, I mean?"

Their faces were so close that Harry felt the hitch in Malfoy's breathing, the sudden tightness around his eyes, before he opened them, features perfectly relaxed again.

"Draco," he said. He must have seen the puzzlement on Harry's face, for he repeated his own name. "Draco."

It took Harry another full second before he understood. _Draco._ The Blue Phoenix's name.

Voldemort's mighty bird was known to appear only at the height of battle, swooping into the enemy's fire, without a moment's hesitation, without consideration for life or limb – wing, he should say. Harry had heard tales if its daring attacks, flying into the bullet sprays from the resistance movement's ancient assault rifles, into the most forceful Stunning Spells that would have brought any other creature down. He had always thought there was some suicidal madness to the bird, as if Voldemort had Imperiused the Blue Phoenix. 

Torwell had fought the Blue Phoenix once, and she had told Harry how the bird had been saved from her Curse by a random Shield Charm, cast accidentally by a Death Eater nearby. She had never told Harry what Curse she had used, but Torwell had killed before, cast the Killing Curse when she felt there was no other way. It was everyone's choice, just as everyone in the movement knew the price there was to pay. _A piece of your soul._ Harry had seen the shadows in Torwell's eyes. He never doubted that she had used the Killing Curse against the Blue Phoenix, when the bird attacked the people under her command. But Torwell had been brave like that, reckless, trained by a life of war. Whereas Malfoy – Malfoy had always been a coward at heart.

Not the Imperius then, but a force perhaps even stronger. Malfoy wanted to move on, die finally, just as Harry wanted to. But Malfoy was not bound by an age-old prophecy, his life was ever extended by the reviving powers of his phoenix Animagus. _Draco._ And there was a way out, even, the way Fawkes must have taken.

The Room of Requirements, turned into a sea of flames, heat solid as a wall, Malfoy's thin scream, his sweaty, slippery hand, his panicked screams, _What are you doing?_ , arms painfully tight around Harry's waist …

Harry suddenly wondered whether their meeting in the warehouse hadn't been all coincidence. Certainly Malfoy had not known that he would meet Harry Potter there. But maybe the Blue Phoenix had heard that Flash Man was leading the refugees. The world's most powerful wizard, as rumour went, more powerful than Voldemort even, some said. An enemy stronger perhaps even than the Blue Phoenix, an enemy who would finish what whoever injured its wing so badly had not fully accomplished. A coward at heart, but seeking death with desperate abandon. Anything but that all-consuming heat which had taken Crabbe, that frightful, merciless fire …

One thing about electric light, it was safe, controlled by a switch (or the swish of a wand, as the case might be), dependent on a tiny metal thread within a fragile bulb of glass. It was beautiful, too, in a detached, moonlight-on-snow way, the light bulbs glowing brighter than the sunlight even, in that hidden, jumbled, home-like place in the Muggle work of art. This light was nothing like the roaring chimaeras of Fiendfyre, nothing like that deadly heat, six thousand degrees on the surface of a dazzling sun.

But fire was the phoenix's destiny. And fire was the one place Malfoy dared not go.

* *

The Horcrux was safely put away in a long metal box, stuffed into the very back of the ancient wardrobe up in the attic. Harry had put a Notice-Me-Not-Charm on it, with a daily _Finite_ alarm. After he had checked on it in the morning, he had spent the day studying the large old map of London that Longbottom and he used to decide on new Portkey points for refugee groups. There was another trek Harry was going to lead in two days. But today he had searched again for places where Voldemort might hide.

Since the discovery of the Horcrux, Harry sensed an uneasy restlessness from the link. There were moments when Voldemort reached out for him with his overpowering magic, trying to find the location of the Horcrux. But he never penetrated the parts of Harry's mind that were protected by Occlumency. 

Malfoy had agreed that Buckingham Palace was a dead lead, and for the thousandth time Harry checked the subway stations around the Tower – Cannon had been flooded for years, Monument was one of the Inferi dens. Which left Aldgate and Mansion House, but they both didn't fit the glimpses that Harry had gleaned from Voldemort's surroundings. Pure instinct told him Voldemort was hiding somewhere close to the river, a certain dampness in the air perhaps, that Harry subconsciously sensed through their link. For years he had searched every inch of the Victoria Embankment, Upper and Lower Tower Street, the entire area of the Tower, and even Wapping High as far as he dared go East before the thick fog in the streets became an impassable barrier that only a Patronus could break through. But Voldemort would not live so close to the Dementors. They were his favourite pets, certainly, but like everybody else, his scattered humanity feared them. Dementors fed on happiness, and the reasons for their victims' happiness made no difference to them. 

Harry smiled to himself. During these last days he would have made a Dementor's holiday feast. Even Aunt Timila had commented on his good mood when he had come for dinner last night, whistling a bawdy Muggle tune. Harry told himself he was so shamelessly happy because he had found the Horcrux at last. But of course the Horcrux was the least of it. For one, it had been Malfoy who had found it. And then, there was Malfoy himself. It had been three days since Harry had left St Paul's, and while they hadn't set a time and day, Harry knew they would see each other again soon. _We're in this together,_ Malfoy had said when they had parted. Harry still wasn't all that sure what was in it for Malfoy and why the Blue Phoenix should help Flash Man, but he stuck to his decision to trust Malfoy. Every once in a while Hermione's voice would whisper warnings, tell him to be careful, not to let his feelings get the better of his judgement. But her voice was hushed and lacked conviction. 

His feelings, though … Harry couldn't remember when he had last felt such thrilling, light-headed giddiness. Memories of the days in the tower would flash through his mind at the oddest of times: the feel of Malfoy's sharp shoulder blades under the robes. The joyful glittering of his eyes when Harry had eaten. His light breathing on Harry's cheek when he had held him close after sex. His voice whispering _Harry_ in the electric glow of the ringing room.

Harry got up from the floor, where he had spread his notes, to make some tea. With the map pinned to one of its walls and every surface covered with thick-papered tomes, the old Black library reminded Harry of the times when number twelve, Grimmauld Place, had served as headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix. It was still a headquarters of sort, with the food and water supplies stored in the kitchen, and the rooms upstairs ready for anyone who needed a bed and a roof to sleep under.

Tea (and Malfoy) on his mind, Harry wasn't prepared for the excruciating pain that shot through his scar as he stepped out of the room. His legs buckled under the onslaught, knees crashing into the threshold of the library door. Angry, disbelieving fury … Harry fortified his Occlumency, slammed up a wall against Voldemort's overwhelming emotion. Like rancid butter he tasted the fear underneath. Something had happened that had shaken Voldemort badly. And his anxiousness made the Dark Lord careless. Like always he broke and re-established the link in haphazard patterns, but now Harry could see things that were usually kept hidden from him – an iron-studded chest that was huge as a boat, a high table where a full dozen of grown men could be seated. 

_"He did not appear at the gathering, my Lord."_ Cattermole's long black beard almost touched the marble floor as he hunkered in front of Voldemort. His voice was distorted through the link, but Harry could hear the words well enough. _"Nor have the bats or the vultures. They follow the Blue Phoenix. As you well know, of course, my Lord."_

This last sounded like an afterthought, as if Cattermole really wasn't all that sure whether Voldemort did know. Harry took a deep breath. So Malfoy resisted the Dark Mark's Call. They had only talked about where Voldemort could be hiding, not discussed any strategies to make the monster leave its cave. But judging from Voldemort's hot anger, this might just work. Harry was about to get up from the floor when Voldemort's fury lashed through him again. Cattermole was writhing on the floor, before Harry heard the _"Crucio!"_ roar in his mind. 

_"I want the phoenix, Cattermole."_ There was an inhuman growl in Voldemort's voice, Harry was sure of it. 

_"We can't make him come, my Lord,"_ Cattermole brought out before another _Crucio_ hit him.

 _"I'll have you bring down St Paul's,"_ Voldemort screamed. _"That bird is mine to command!"_

The Dark Lord knew where Malfoy lived. The shock made Harry almost miss the movement at the right of his field of vision. Voldemort was so focused on Cattermole that he never saw the green-robed woman in the shadows of the red-walled room. But the small bird that the woman released from her hands immediately caught his attention. The bird soared to the low ceiling, fluttered fearfully towards the window, then Voldemort's Stunning Spell hit it. In a detached way Harry registered the soothing calm that settled over the Dark Lord. Slowly, with an almost sensual feeling of satisfaction, he ripped off the long wings and the beak of the paralyzed bird, Cattermole and the Blue Phoenix forgotten. Harry was sure he didn't even notice the woman as she helped the General up from the floor. They retreated quickly and left, leaving the enormous wooden doors wide open.

Voldemort glanced up from the bloody mess he'd made of the bird. Through his eyes, Harry looked into a bright hallway leading into a shadowed hall. He had only ever seen glimpses of it before, but now he realised that it was a huge round with black marble columns. Arched, ornamented recesses ran along the entire circle, as far as he could see. Again there were dead bodies on the floor, perhaps more than Harry had seen before. They glinted darkly silver, with a red light flickering over them. Harry strained to see more of the hall when Voldemort closed down the link abruptly, as if he had suddenly become aware of Harry's presence.

Harry's knees hurt as he got up, his throat was parched. He leaned his forehead against the doorjamb, the ache in his scar soothed by the cool stone, and he tried to make sense of what he'd seen. As his breathing calmed, he became aware of how still the house was. Outside, in the quiet of the early evening, a bird's song could be heard. Harry quickly stepped to the window, opened the drawn curtains and looked outside. 

The Muggles had all but left Grimmauld Place, the shabby little green space in the middle of the square lay deserted. Deserted but for the Blue Phoenix singing in one of the drooping willow trees. From the east, night fell over the run-down houses, a soft purple light that bled into the sky still pale with the foggy grey of the day. The song seemed to grow stronger as Harry stood enchanted, Voldemort, the Horcrux, the Death Eaters gone from his mind, and only the music within him as it had been with Fawkes's song. It was as if the Blue Phoenix had turned all the sad happiness inside him into music, had woven whatever he felt for Malfoy into a wistful, low-pitched tune that held, too, the knowledge that he would die soon, would be free, finally, of this unnatural life, and still he wanted to live, be with Malfoy, and have time for this one last love. Tears streamed down his face as the song echoed through the empty streets of Grimmauld Place.

Hours seemed to have passed when the song ended. Harry lowered the wards, muttered _"Legilimens"_ to the bird in the willow, showing it the inside of the library. _The wards are down. You're welcome to come in._ The next moment, Malfoy stood in front of the fireplace. He had his hair bound back in a ponytail, dressed in the black-leather boots and the old-fashioned robes he'd worn in the warehouse. He took a second to regain his balance after Apparition, then turned to Harry at once.

"There are Death Eaters watching this place," he said. "You should get those wards back up now." 

Harry quickly restored the house to its former Unplottable condition. He couldn't take his eyes off Malfoy, his posture proud and untouchable, his appraising gaze as he looked around the library. "Draco …" The phoenix's song still resounded in Harry's heart. It felt impossible that this wizard in a Death Eater's outfit could have created such fragile, melancholy beauty. _He didn't. That was the phoenix's gift, Harry. You have to stop confusing him with his Animagus._ Hermione's voice was back full force.

"I've been here before, you know. When I was a child." Malfoy walked towards the bookshelves, the high polish of his leather boots strangely befitting the intricate pattern of the expensive oriental rug. He let his long fingers trail over the leather-bound backs. "Ah, yes, the noble house of Black." Every word spelled contempt for what had become of a family once leading pure-blood society. 

"Malfoy … please …" Harry could have slapped himself, and Hermione would have agreed whole-heartedly. How could he have expected any of this to be easy? This was Malfoy, for God's sake. Still he couldn't stop himself from saying: "Please, don't."

The trailing fingers stopped as if they'd found a book they had been looking for. Harry crossed the room, taking in the opened books lying upside down on the floor, his notes scattered on the antique velvet couch, the plate with the half-eaten sandwich, the empty cups of tea forgotten on the shelves. When he stood at Malfoy's side, the other man looked at him almost fearfully, and Harry took his left hand and turned it around. There was a Spell of some kind on the Dark Mark, the skin around it swollen and red. Harry drew his wand from the back pocket of his jeans.

"What happened to wandless magic, Potter?" Malfoy whispered. He had gone pale, the hand Harry held was trembling.

"Not for healing spells." He looked into Malfoy's grey eyes, challenged him without words to cut the crap. "Not everyone is a phoenix Animagus."

Malfoy didn't answer, but dropped his eyes to his forearm. Harry moved his wand across it, trying to assess the damage. "Is this a Repelling Charm? Is it working against Voldemort's Call?" he asked.

"Not very well," Malfoy admitted. "But he stopped Calling for some time now." The charm was gone without Malfoy even batting an eye.

"He got distracted. By a fucking bird, if you can believe it. But he was not happy that the Blue Phoenix didn't show. He will Call you again." Harry cast a healing spell. The swelling subsided at once, leaving the skin fresh and pink around the red lines of the Mark. Harry moved his fingertips across it, then reluctantly let go of Malfoy.

"A bird? Did you see that through your bloody link?" Malfoy rubbed his wrist where Harry had touched it, staring at him, with curiosity and something else that Harry could not put a name to.

He nodded. Voldemort had lost his marbles, the Dark Lord was bloody mental, but right now Harry couldn't care less. "I'm glad you've come," he said, putting the wand back in his pocket. He wanted to touch Malfoy again, but didn't know how. Their easy intimacy in the tower room seemed ages ago.

"I had to see you." Malfoy's eyes were still on Harry when he shifted his body, and all of a sudden the distance between them seemed to have shrunk. His lips were very near when he said, "Don't know how much longer I could have resisted the Call." He touched Harry's face, traced imaginary lines on it, and Harry remembered that he had cried earlier, because of the phoenix's song, because of …

Malfoy whispered, "Merlin, Potter, you … I can't get you out of my head. You fucking did something to me. And you're such a –"

Harry interrupted him rudely, with a kiss. He couldn't stand it anymore to have Malfoy so close and not kiss him. He wrapped his arms around Malfoy's waist, and Malfoy pulled him close, too, and God, Harry couldn't get enough of those lips, of Malfoy's tongue that explored his mouth gently at first, then more wildly, lips smashing against teeth, and oh, he needed this _taste_ , traces of cinnamon and something faintly metallic and fresh that was just Malfoy. They came up for air with lips still touching, their breath warm and moist between them. "Harry," Malfoy whispered, raking trembling fingers through his hair, kissing him again with a need that made Harry ache to place the lightest of kisses on Malfoy's luminous skin, and at the same time he wanted nothing more than to thrust into Malfoy's body, mouth, arse, he didn't care, as deeply as he could. 

When they finally broke apart, Harry was hard as a rock. He was certain that, if Malfoy as much as put his hand to his cock, he'd come on the spot. Malfoy was trembling in his arms, like he might collapse if Harry let him go. But he had enough strength left to push Harry towards the velvet couch and make them both fall onto it. Harry groaned loudly when Malfoy came to lie on top of him and pushed his thigh between Harry's legs.

He had the buttons of Harry's jeans opened in no time, you could have sworn he undressed Muggles every night. Harry lifted his arse from the couch, so that Malfoy could push down the jeans and his pants. It felt good, unbelievably good, clothes bunched around his thighs, confining his movements, his groin exposed to the air, with Malfoy so close, shifting on top of him, as he sat up and shook off his robes, let them fall to the floor beside the couch. He was wearing a light blue shirt that looked so soft that Harry had to stroke the fabric with the back of his hand. Malfoy glanced down in surprise at the fingers on his chest. When Harry's knuckles moved across his silk-covered nipples, he inhaled sharply, his face contorted in intense pleasure. To see Malfoy excited like this, from a mere caress of his hand, almost made Harry come. A shiver ran through his body, he wanted to touch Malfoy, touch him so much … Perhaps Malfoy could tell that he was too close already, for he didn't reach for Harry's cock, simply moved his fingers in small circles over Harry's stomach. Where he touched him, muscles clenched and unclenched on their own accord, and Harry let his own hands glide up Malfoy's sides. His body was warm underneath the trousers' wool and the silk, and God, he wanted him naked in his arms. Harry leaned up, kissed Malfoy as gently as he could. 

"I'll explode if you touch me," he whispered. "Bring me off just with your mouth?" 

Malfoy's silent laughter rippled against Harry's chest. "A blow-job in the Black library?" he said, as he brought his lips close to Harry's ear. "Oh, but it's my pleasure, Potter."

He slid down Harry's body, deliberately letting his thigh brush against Harry's cock. A shock wave of pleasure shot through Harry's groin. He groaned and grabbed Malfoy by the shoulders, pushing him down further until he knelt between Harry's legs. His palms were hot on the insides of Harry's thighs as he pulled the jeans and pants even further down.

"You," he said softly, "need to move up. There's not enough room here." 

They shoved and shifted on the couch to get Harry's glasses, clothes and trainers off, leaving him naked but for his t-shirt, which should have made him feel ridiculous but didn't. If possible, he was even more aroused by the scratchy velvet against his arse and the thought of Malfoy, fully clothed, about to go down on him. As Harry watched him take off his boots, the three-armed candleholder on the lectern burst into flame with a non-verbal _Incendio,_ and the flickering light illuminated Malfoy's face. His voice had sounded steady enough, but now Harry could see pink blotches on his skin. His half-closed eyes seemed almost black. There could be no doubt how much he wanted Harry, and that alone sent a jolt of pleasure through Harry's body. He groaned deeply as pre-come oozed from his cock. Malfoy moved his tongue across lips still red and bruised from their kissing. He looked so torturously hot that Harry let his legs fall apart and pushed up his arse from the couch, inviting Malfoy to use that pink tongue of his on something other than his own lips.

"Who would have thought the mighty Harry Potter was so eager to have his dick blown?" Malfoy's voice again, full of that mocking nastiness, but husky and dark with want.

"I've waited three fucking days for this," Harry groaned. "Get going, Malfoy."

Malfoy's tongue flickered over the tip of his cock, and Harry's head rolled backward on the armrest. Malfoy was licking off drops of pre-come, and Harry lost all control over the sounds coming from his throat. He barely realised that Malfoy struggled to keep his bucking hips down, all he felt was Malfoy's tongue swirling around the head of his cock. There was a hint of teeth, and his own voice begging " _so good, oh please, God, yes_ ," over and over. He wanted to shove his cock all the way into the wet warmth of Malfoy's mouth, fast and violently, but he couldn't with his hips immobilised by Malfoy's hands. His back arched, and he almost screamed with the need to come when Malfoy started sucking him, a firm grip around his length. Images from his wanking fantasies of the last days flashed through Harry's mind, of Malfoy piercing him, full and so hard. Perhaps he had moaned "fuck me," or Malfoy somehow sensed what Harry wanted, for when Harry pushed up his arse to get deeper into that hot mouth, Malfoy let his hand slide into Harry's crack, pushing first one, then two long fingers into the puckered hole. Harry was loose and slick and already so far gone that it took but a few short thrusts, and he was coming, with barely enough time to give Malfoy a warning. He reached for his head, tried to yank him off, but Malfoy would not budge. He took in even more of Harry's cock and sucked his orgasm right out of him, making Harry cry out, his eyes squeezed shut, after-images of the three candles exploding like shooting stars, as he spilled his entire load, way too much for Malfoy to swallow, but good, damn it, how could, could this feel _so_ –

He didn't even wait for the force of his orgasm to subside, he had to reach for Malfoy with shaking arms, pull him up on top of him and feel him close all over. God, he wanted Malfoy to come so much, have him cream his bloody bespoke trousers, lose his reserve and go wild, for him. Malfoy was half-hard and excited, the way he rubbed against Harry's hipbone. Harry didn't touch him, though. After the last time, he knew that he had to wait for Malfoy to tell him. 

But Malfoy said nothing, no word, no unspoken invitation, either. He just kept moving against Harry, stroking his chest underneath the t-shirt. After endless minutes, Harry leaned up and kissed Malfoy. He knew he shouldn't feel disappointment at the gentleness of Malfoy's response, but he did. The bitter taste of his own come made him ache even more and he broke the kiss, turned his head away, so Malfoy wouldn't notice the tears brimming in his eyes. He reached for Malfoy's ponytail, loosened the ribbon, and the hair spilled free, a curtain gleaming in the candlelight, half hiding Malfoy's face. Harry buried his fingers in it, sucked at the soft tips that danced upon his lips, light as feathers. 

Malfoy pressed his body closer, he moved his fingers over Harry's face, traced his eyelashes. Obviously he sensed that something was amiss. "Phoenix dreamed about you," he whispered.

Harry murmured, "Yeah?" unsure what Malfoy meant to tell him. Had _he_ dreamed about him? Or Draco the phoenix? And what did a phoenix dream about anyway? Did it have wet dreams as vivid as Harry's these last nights, waking him up painfully hard, on the brink of orgasm? 

"Your colours were all fire and gold, but not the crest. Black crest, black tail. And green … green eyes." Malfoy's voice trembled, his breath was coming fast. "So beautiful." 

Oh. Harry looked up, trying to read the other man's face. In the silvery shadows of his hair, Malfoy's eyes seemed to be filled with mist. "You dreamed _I_ was a phoenix?"

"Phoenix. Phoenix dreamed." Malfoy's entire body was trembling now. And he was hard, definitely full and hard, his erection grinding against Harry's hip. 

"I can't be that for you," Harry said softly. "You know that, don't you?" He smoothed the hair away from Malfoy's face, traced his half-open mouth with two fingers.

"Yes," Malfoy gasped. "I know."

But you wouldn't think he did, from how aroused he had become from merely recalling Phoenix's dream. He moved on top of Harry, pushed his left leg between the back of the couch and Harry's side, his cock pressed against Harry's groin with only the cloth of the trousers between them. Harry let his fingers explore Malfoy's back, squeezed his buttocks, delighted in the breathless moans his touches were tearing from Malfoy's lips. Shit, he was getting much too turned on by Malfoy's arousal, when it wasn't even him but some imaginary green-eyed bird that Malfoy had the hots for. When it was the phoenix Animagus who wanted …

"Draco," he whispered, the name strangely familiar in his mouth. "What – what do you want?"

"I want … want …" Something flashed in Malfoy's eyes, his face contorted as if he was in pain. He yanked up Harry's t-shirt, groped at the skin, pulled at the spattering of hair on Harry's chest. He kissed his right nipple, painfully sensitive still, whispered: "Want … you … you …" He moved to Harry's right side, pressed his mouth to a spot below the ribs, then bit into the skin with a ferocious need that took Harry entirely by surprise. It hurt, badly, the way Malfoy tore at him, but the spot had to be an erogenous zone or something, because the pain was laced with pleasure so intense that Harry instinctively turned his body to expose more of that responsive skin. Malfoy kept biting, his teeth like blunt scissors in Harry's flesh, he had to be drawing blood now. The pain became too much, and Harry cried out softly, flinching away. Malfoy quickly put one hand on his back to keep him close. He sucked eagerly at the spot he'd bitten into, but he was clearly holding back now, trying to be more gentle. All the time his cock was pressed hard into Harry's groin, crushed against him without any movement at all, like back in the tower.

After maybe half a minute Malfoy calmed down, kissing and licking carefully around the raw cuts in Harry's skin. Harry's breathing slowed, too, he put his arms around Malfoy's neck, pulled the other man towards him. He wasn't sure what had just happened, only that he had been able to give Malfoy some strange form of release. 

Malfoy's body felt too hot underneath the shirt, and Harry pushed the silk from his shoulders. He touched the sweaty, perfectly white skin at Malfoy's right side, just below the ribs, and Malfoy shuddered almost imperceptibly. He took a deep breath, then sat up. Harry, too, pushed himself up to a sitting position. His glasses were on the floor, and he reached for them. He needed to see Malfoy clearly, all of him, the way his hair fell into his face, his collarbone sharp and white, his hands still on Harry's hips, blue silk pooling around his waist. Harry felt so fiercely protective of him, it made breathing hard.

Malfoy lifted his head and met Harry's gaze. "Shit, I didn't mean –"

"Shh," Harry interrupted him at once. "No apologies. It felt good. You felt good. Bloody fantastic, really."

A small smile crinkled Malfoy's lips. "Then let me heal those bites, at least."

Harry shook his head, feeling proud and stubborn and insanely happy. "I want to keep them. They make me remember that you're human, too."

Malfoy laughed, a real laugh despite the pain in it. "Don't be an idiot, Potter. These bites only say one thing: that Draco Malfoy lost all control over his Animagus form. Am I still human? I don't know."

"You are," Harry said. "Look." He pointed to the wet spots of pre-come at the front of Malfoy's trousers. "Perhaps when you're staying in this body longer … forget the phoenix for a while, then you'll be able to … you know, come." He put his hand on Malfoy's groin, stroking him softly.

Malfoy shrugged, but didn't take Harry's hand away. "Doesn't work like this, Potter."

"Are you telling me you haven't fucked anyone since Fawkes changed you?"

There was a sudden tightening around Malfoy's eyes. "No, I haven't," he snapped. "And don't start feeling sorry for me, Potter. It wasn't a problem until you showed up." He moved backwards on the couch, away from Harry's touch, shrugged back into his shirt. 

Harry knew he shouldn't press the issue, seeing as Malfoy was already on edge. _Bloody Malfoy pride._ "I don't get it," he said quietly. "Why would Dumbledore do such a thing? Call it his mercy?" Wrong questions, Harry saw it right away. Malfoy had always hated Dumbledore.

Malfoy got up, walked quickly towards the lectern, then whipped around, anger and that fierce pride making his eyes spark in cold silver. "Do you have any idea, Potter, what it means to be a phoenix? Do you know about Burning Day? How it feels to have your body erupt in blue lightning, to have life flare up from within you, to be made all new again, so full of strength? Fucking, tossing off … it's needle pricks compared to that. And the flying! Forget the crutches we call brooms. The phoenix's body is meant to soar in the air - you know nothing about flying if you haven't had wings. And I can hear the birds, Potter, they talk to me. Those tales the eagles tell, ah Salazar …" His voice broke, for a moment he closed his eyes, then turned abruptly towards the window, hands clenched into fists.

Harry stared at him. He was held again by that strange sense of awe he'd already felt in the tower. In the window, the mirror image of Malfoy's face was tinted blue and black, a white light flickering around it. He was right, Harry knew nothing of this creature standing in his library. "I'd like to …" His voice came out in a rough whisper, he stopped and cleared his throat. Malfoy turned, watched him. "I'd like to know what it feels like," Harry said. "To have wings. Fly high into the sky like the Blue Phoenix back at the warehouse."

Malfoy gave a short laugh. "You saw that, didn't you?"

Harry nodded. "It was pretty spectacular."

That lop-sided shrug, already so familiar. Malfoy walked across the rug back towards Harry. The candlelight shone on the side of his face, making his sharp features go soft, his grey eyes cloud over like before, when he had talked about phoenix's dream. He bent down beside the couch, took both of Harry's hands. "Perhaps," he said with an odd sort of smile, "perhaps one day you will grow wings."

"Yeah. Perhaps." With their fingers entwined, the joke felt like a promise of some sort, but before Harry understood what he was feeling, Malfoy let go of his hands. He rose and looked down at Harry who suddenly became very aware that he was wearing nothing but this ridiculous t-shirt.

"Well, Potter, what have you planned for the rest of the evening?"

"You know," Harry said, leaning down to the floor, "I haven't decided yet about later." He picked up Malfoy's robes, held them out to him. "But right now I'm taking you out to dinner."

*

It took Harry a whole bloody hour to convince Malfoy to leave the house in human shape and get dinner at a Muggle restaurant. And he absolutely refused to walk the few blocks over to Tufnell Park. "You have to be mental to go out there at night," he declared and perhaps he was right. But Harry had lived in this neighbourhood for so long, he couldn't imagine packs of werewolves roaming the streets, attacking anybody, wizard or Muggle, who dared to take a stroll by the light of the moon.

When they Apparated in a side alley near Aunt Timila's place, they almost stumbled upon a Muggle couple making out between the trash bins. Malfoy at once put the hood of his robes over his head, he looked ready to Disapparate on the spot. Harry took him by the hand and pulled him out onto Dartmouth Park Hill. There was no traffic, which Harry took as a lucky sign. He had an inkling that Malfoy would bolt, if one of the huge, petroleum-driven trucks came clattering down the street. 

Tufnell Park was one of the last few Muggle areas outside of the Ghetto. The Death Eaters from Islington loved to hang out in the Boston Arms. The proprietor, known to everybody as Old Paddy, was a half-blood wizard with enough clout to protect Muggles and Muggle-born still living in the neighbourhood. It helped, too, that Flash Man had cast a Disillusionment Charm on the establishments that were frequented by the members of the resistance movement, Muggle and wizard alike. But neither Flash Man nor Old Paddy had been able to prevent the Death Eater raid of Muggle businesses three weeks ago. When Harry had come to Dartmouth Park Hill that night, the stench of leaking gas and melted plastic had been thick amidst the wet fog. Aunt Timila's restaurant had been burned to the ground, the Dark Mark still glowing an eerie pale green in the sky above the street when Harry had taken the woman to number twelve, Grimmauld Place, for the night. It had been the first and only time he had seen Aunt Timila cry.

A little bell tinkled as Harry opened the door of the small diner. Aunt Timila had opened it shortly after the failed Portkeying mission in the White City warehouse. She and Harry had never spoken again about her leaving London, and she stubbornly ignored all his hints about other refugee treks going up to Hogwarts. When he and Malfoy stepped into the dimly-lit diner, there were three more guests, a Muggle couple at the window table, and a wizard who scanned through an old copy of the Prophet, waiting for his take-away. A deliciously spicy smell came from the dishes on display in the glass-covered containers at the counter. Aunt Timila, dressed in a bright pink sari, looked up and waved with a chopping knife, her usual busy welcome. There was a short pause in her movement when she saw that he was not alone, but she went back to her onion-chopping at once. She had never seen Malfoy in the warehouse, only knew that the Blue Phoenix had saved her life because Harry had told her so. She had burned candles with wicks soaked in ghee and camphor, giving her thanks to Agni, the God of fire.

Harry went to his usual table in the corner furthest from the door, dropped his backpack onto the broad wooden bench by the wall. Malfoy, who had followed Harry closely, hesitated a moment, then pulled off his robes and folded them over the back of the chair. Harry couldn't imagine that Malfoy had ever eaten in a fast food restaurant, and the concept of self-service was the exact opposite of what Malfoy had been brought up to expect from the world. He didn't move to sit, though, but looked around cautiously. The red candles everywhere, the green jade Buddha beside the cashier, the silent birds in the big copper cage near the half-opened backdoor to the yard – he took it all in, while keeping a close eye on the door and the windows. Securing the area, like an Auror, Harry realised. Then Malfoy's gaze fell on the garishly coloured poster of a phoenix rising, a fiery vision above a spring in a sun-lit green valley. His lips twitched in a way that Harry knew was a smile. 

"Now let's see," Aunt Timila counted the Knuts the wizard had paid for his take-away, "you had pork not that long ago, the Lamb Thali with Goda Masala yesterday. Chicken Miravna today, Harry, what do you say? I got fresh coriander and savory from the black market over at the old prison."

She looked up from the small pile of money, flashed him a grin.

"Sounds good, Auntie," Harry said.

"And what will it be for your shy young friend?" 

She reached for a rose-patterned plate, started to fill it with a dish of bright green herbs and fried pieces of chicken. All the time she never once looked at Malfoy. Harry wondered why she would call him shy, then noticed that Malfoy stood very close to him, certainly closer than a mere acquaintance would stand, half hiding behind Harry's body. His grey eyes followed Aunt Timila's every move. And God, he did look young with his hair open and the blue shirt. And slightly intimidated, too, for all Harry could tell. He knew the feeling. Aunt Timila, for all her motherly appearances, could do that to you.

He turned his head towards Malfoy. "Um, I never asked … you do eat human food, don't you? What would you like?"

Malfoy's chest was warm at Harry's shoulder. "I don't eat meat," he said. "And it all smells wonderful." He sounded hungry and so startlingly, everyday human that Harry couldn't help but lean back against him for a moment. 

There were crinkles around Aunt Timila's mouth as she spooned cucumber raita and jackfruit chutney on the side of Harry's plate. "You should try the Tahiri Biryani then," she said, and Harry could only marvel at her sharp hearing. He and Malfoy had spoken very softly. "Made fresh this morning. With my very own sauteed mushrooms, and that's better than what you were served at those posh Ayurveda restaurants back when there still were posh restaurants in London." She looked up, addressing Malfoy directly for the first time. There was a challenge in her voice, and Harry felt Malfoy's body stiffen. He should have expected this, of course. Malfoy with his odd white-blond hair and the conservative wizarding attire looked pure-blood all through. He had the shirtsleeves closed tight around his wrists, on a warm July night. To someone as suspicious as Aunt Timila this could only mean that he was hiding the Dark Mark. 

"It sounds delicious, Madam. I'd love to try your Biryani." Malfoy's voice, utterly charming, giving away nothing. And _Madam_? Aunt Timila's brown eyes glinted with hidden amusement. No one had ever called her Madam, Harry was certain. Not in this life. 

"Well, then," she said, reaching for another rose-patterned plate. "You boys sit down. I'll bring you the food. A beer, Flash Man?" She forked golden-brown mushrooms onto the plate.

"Make it two," Harry said.

*

They didn't stop after two beers. Aunt Timila warmed a bit towards Malfoy, once he had finished the generous helping of her Biryani, soybean salad, raita, papadum bread, even the almond kulfi she brought them for dessert. Harry thought he heard her grumble something like "At least he appreciates good food," as she carried away the empty plates.

Malfoy stared after her, then turned back to Harry with a sigh of relief. "You found your true mother, Potter," he said. "Merlin, I feel like I was just presented to the new in-laws. Does she do this to every one of your boyfriends?"

"There haven't been that many boyfriends," Harry said, a warm thrill in his stomach because Malfoy, in roundabout Malfoy fashion, had called himself his boyfriend. "They were Muggles, and she was exceptionally nice to them." He looked over to Aunt Timila who was getting another take-away ready for a girl who'd come in a couple of minutes ago. Their eyes met, and she turned away quickly. She was paying close attention to him and Malfoy. Harry cast a _Muffliato_. "Don't hold it against her. She thinks you're a Death Eater."

"She is one clever woman, Potter." Malfoy was rubbing lightly over his wrist. "I am a Death Eater."

"But you are also the Blue Phoenix, who saved this clever woman's life."

There was no answer. Malfoy kept rubbing his wrist, and Harry wondered whether Voldemort was Summoning him again. But he sensed nothing from the link except a faint restlessness. Perhaps the Dark Lord was asleep. Harry felt sleepy, too, and oddly happy with the good food in his belly, the malty taste of beer in his throat and Malfoy here with him and close. He stretched his legs under the table and brushed against Malfoy's boots as he did so. "Are you all right?" he asked softly, as Malfoy responded by pressing his knee against Harry's leg. 

Malfoy nodded. "Just thinking …" He held out his left hand.

Harry took it at once, aware that while Aunt Timila could no longer listen in on their conversation, she could still see them touching. Well, let her see him touch the Dark Mark, let her see that he didn't care. There was so much more to this man. _Malfoy._ He wrapped his fingers around Malfoy's wrist, felt the warm skin underneath the thin fabric. Malfoy's pulse was beating softly against his palm. The small wounds from his bites burned at Harry's side where his shirt brushed against them. He remembered the sensation of silk gliding over his naked chest, Malfoy's choked voice – _want you_ –, his body on top of Harry taut with a need so strong that he'd broken Harry's skin with his teeth. _Draco Malfoy lost all control over his Animagus form …_

"Malfoy," he said, then realised that the other man was watching him closely.

"Something's on your mind." Malfoy rubbed the side of Harry's hand with his thumb. His arm on the table lay in a crooked angle, not bent all the way at the damaged elbow. 

"Your phoenix –" Harry started, then broke off. No more euphemisms. Draco Malfoy, Draco the phoenix. They were the same being, either human- or bird-shaped, but one body and one soul. An Animagus was not a creature separate from the wizard, not a split-off identity. "Draco. Draco the phoenix. What does he want when you sleep with me?"

Malfoy looked at Harry, those grey eyes considering him. "You've heard of Newt Scamander?"

"Of course. The author of _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_. He was high up there on Hagrid's shit list, because he started the Ban on Experimental Breeding. God, remember how Hagrid went on and on about how dragon-breeding should be legalised in Britain." The alcohol was buzzing through Harry's body, he always talked too much when he was getting pissed. And he should stop with the drinking, but really, he hadn't felt that relaxed, that safe, in a very long time.

An amused smile played around Malfoy's mouth. "Funny that you should mention the Ban."

"Yeah? Why?" Harry reached for the beer bottle with his left, took one gulp. Malfoy's hand in his felt too good to let go of it.

Malfoy shrugged. "The phoenix's sexual passion," he said with the air of quoting from a book, "is solely for the continuation of its kind. It is a solitary beast, hermaphroditic in nature, all its desires are directed towards its brood." He paused, perhaps waiting for some kind of reaction from Harry. When none was forthcoming – and what should he say to _that_? – Malfoy continued. "Scamander became some kind of an expert on the phoenix in his old age. I was lucky to find the fifty-eighth edition of _Fantastic Beasts,_ the last one. In a Muggle bookshop, of all places." He watched Harry from half-closed eyes, his posture strangely poised between his hand, holding on to Harry even harder than before, and his body that was leaned back in the chair, cautiously, as if he was expecting a blow or something.

 _All its desires are directed towards its brood_? "Um, I don't understand … what does it mean?" Certainly Malfoy's words couldn't imply what Harry was thinking.

"It means," Malfoy said with his most casual, most matter-of-fact voice, "that phoenix wants an egg."

"An …?" The nest. The way Malfoy had stared at the phoenix's nest in the tower. Harry tried to remember whether he had ever seen a nest in Dumbledore's jumbled headmaster's office. There had been Fawkes's wooden perch, the Pensieve, the fragile tables with the odd silver instruments. No nest. "You built that nest up in St Paul's?"

Malfoy nodded. "A phoenix's nest. Made from cinnamon twigs." Still that casual tone, but Harry felt the cold sweat in Malfoy's palm. He eyed Harry carefully, clearly expecting a response now.

"Fawkes," Harry said slowly. "There was no nest in Dumbledore's office."

Dumbledore, Fawkes, that was safe, firm ground. Both were dead, had been human and beast. No Animagus confusion of identities. _No messy, confused desires,_ Harry couldn't help thinking.

"Fawkes was an exception in every way," Malfoy stated coolly. "He killed himself, long before his time. Without an egg, he didn't need a nest. Nothing like this should ever have happened. The phoenix is extinct now. All that is left is my Animagus form." He sounded bitter, but his eyes were on Harry, asking him to understand all that he did not say. "Their bond must have been immensely powerful, if Fawkes could not live without Dumbledore. That's what Scamander meant when he wrote that no one but him ever domesticated a phoenix. It's not possible. Fawkes stayed with Dumbledore because he chose to do so. And he followed him, when Dumbledore went behind the veil."

Malfoy stopped, a grudging respect for their old headmaster showing in his face. Harry remembered the Ministry of Magic, a fiery bird swooping from the ceiling, right between the Killing Curse and Dumbledore, swallowing the jet of green light whole. Such loyalty could not be bought by magic or even gratitude. Love was what made you sacrifice your life, in the blink of a moment, without a second thought. Harry had known this in his flesh ever since the day Voldemort had put his mark on him. He leaned closer, set his elbows on the table and took Malfoy's hand in both of his, stroking his long fingers. 

Malfoy's eyes were on Harry's ring finger, on the small band where the skin was still lighter from wearing his wedding ring all those years. No trace of rings showed on Malfoy's hands, not on the one Harry was holding nor on the other one wrapped around the beer bottle. Very softly Malfoy said, "So you see, Potter: Dumbledore's mercy was not for me, but for Fawkes. Or rather for the phoenix. And I'll be damned if I know why he chose me."

Dumbledore's mercy … The old wizard's intentions had never been easy to understand, or even to guess at. _You will be able to save more than one life,_ his voice echoed in Harry's mind. Dumbledore had always been a great believer in catching two birds with one stone. He, of course, would have called it fate. And perhaps it was. Dumbledore could not have foreseen that when Fawkes turned Draco Malfoy into a phoenix Animagus, he had given Harry a powerful ally who, in a couple of hours, retrieved the Horcrux which Harry had searched for years and years. Still –

"But chosen for what, Malfoy? Laying an egg, breeding a phoenix? I mean …" _Easy, Harry, easy,_ Hermione's voice cut in, and Harry noticed, too, the way Malfoy tensed up. In Harry's hands, his fingers were trembling. Easy then … "I mean, you're a bloke, with all the blokey equipment attached to the right places. I can attest to that." He tried for a chuckle, and it sounded convincing enough, like all of this was some kind of absurd, abstract discussion. But it wasn't. The Blue Phoenix was the last of its kind. And Harry had seen the longing in Malfoy's face when he had looked at that empty nest.

A responding chuckle. Too thin and high, but a chuckle nonetheless. Malfoy's fingers kept trembling, but he seemed to appreciate Harry's attempt at humour. "The most unlikely of choices for the job, definitely," he said. "I'm pants at anything to do with breeding. Merlin, I couldn't even get it up for Astoria."

"You must have once." Scorpius. That graceful, quiet, gentle boy. Malfoy's son. *****

Harry hadn't expected Malfoy to react so strongly, not after all those years. But he practically yanked his hand from Harry's, almost pushed the beer bottle over, then grabbed it and pressed it to his body, like a buoy in a stormy sea. His face was an open book – hopeless pain, and not lessened a bit with time, a wound that opened and bled at the slightest scratch. And as much as Harry regretted to have ripped that wound open now, he was oddly thankful that Malfoy trusted him enough to see it. 

"Do you know how he was killed? It never made it into the papers." The bitterness in Malfoy's voice was sharp one moment, then he quickly turned away, stared over to the counter where the girl was paying her take-away. "He was barely seventeen." A toneless whisper, so very soft, when Malfoy's thumb was rubbing the neck of the beer bottle firmly, just as he had rubbed Harry's hand before.

"Of course I know." Harry's voice had gone hoarse, too. It had been the worst time in his life, that first crazy killing year after Voldemort had come back. A stray Muggle troop, trained by Aurors, had derailed the Hogwarts Express and executed all adult children of known Death Eaters. Their information had come from the Ministry's files. Those bloody confidential files on Death Eaters' families. Harry had left the Auror Office, had concentrated all his efforts on finding the Horcrux. It had seemed the quickest, the easiest way to destroy Voldemort back then, with Hermione still at his side. "Shit, Malfoy," he whispered, "how could I not know? Scorpius and Al were friends in school. Remember Al, my boy?" 

Al, who had founded Sanctuary, after Voldemort's victory. Who had rebuilt Hogwarts from the ruins that Voldemort left, after he had finally found the Resurrection Stone in the ashes of the Forbidden Forest. Voldemort had been busy creating his army of Inferi, while Al had convinced Harry to use his magic to fortify the new castle. Sanctuary. Harry had become Flash Man in those days, had found his calling, guiding refugees out of London, which was rapidly turning into a Dark City of despair.

He looked up to see Malfoy stare at him with eyes shining way too bright. "Albus Severus …" Malfoy pronounced Al's full name slowly, as if he said it for the very first time. "I had forgotten that they were friends." He swallowed, moved one hand across his eyes. "It was … I … I wasn't myself after Scorpius died." A shadow had fallen on his face, his voice had grown hesitant. They had arrived at the things that Malfoy didn't trust Harry to see.

The time after Scorpius died – it must have been the time when Malfoy had made his choice, when he joined the Death Eaters' group that had poisoned all of Muggle London. When he chose the Dark for better or worse. Dumbledore's mercy? Harry had a pretty good idea why the old wizard would have chosen Malfoy, even if Malfoy couldn't see it. There had been a promise still to be fulfilled, and it was Dumbledore who had given it on the Astronomy Tower, to a very scared, very desperate boy. Harry held out his hands again, asking Malfoy without words to take them.

Malfoy didn't move, he kept rubbing at the bottle. The red paper around its neck was almost entirely gone, only a frazzled golden fringe was left.

"Draco," Harry said softly, using the name deliberately. He needed to feel Malfoy close to ask Draco what he had to know.

There was a clink of glass on wood when Malfoy put the beer back on the table. He leaned forward, stroked Harry's hands and forearms. They were close now, with only the small table between them, and Harry was tempted to just lean over and kiss the other man. He didn't, though, just wrapped his fingers around Malfoy's wrists.

"What did you –" he started, then was lost for words. God, how could he ask that? "When you … bit me, earlier, in the library," he whispered, "what did … why did you do that?" _All desire is directed towards the brood._ But when Malfoy had said that he wanted him, he had been Draco, too, Harry was certain of it. Draco the phoenix, who dreamed of Harry as another phoenix, about him being his mate. Draco, who desired Harry like one bloke desired another. 

"I don't know," Malfoy said softly, his eyes full of that fearful caution. "I … I just wanted to be with you, wanted –," and Harry knew he was going to say it, heard Malfoy's voice go husky even before he uttered the words, "– wanted to fuck you so badly." 

Malfoy's words were reaching straight down to Harry's cock, and he brought Malfoy's fingertips to his mouth, kissed them one after the other, as gently as he could. Malfoy watched him, a small smile on his lips, pleased and surprised. "You …" He shook his head, blond strands falling into his eyes. "It felt like fucking, biting you. Like it was the most natural thing. I didn't even know I was going for your skin, until you cried out." A finger touched Harry's lips, traced his cheekbone. "I never meant to hurt you."

"You didn't." Harry shifted, so that his shirt brushed across the wounds at his side, wanting to feel again that burning sensation. He had been hurt before. This pain was something else altogether.

There was a movement at the counter, and Harry saw Aunt Timila wave at him, asking him without words if it was okay to interrupt. A small tray with three shot glasses, filled with a clear red-golden liquid, stood in front of her. Malfoy turned, following Harry's gaze. He withdrew his hands immediately, returned his right back to the safe place around the bottle's neck.

Harry nodded towards Aunt Timila, ended the _Muffliato_ -Spell. He watched as Malfoy finished his beer in one long gulp, the movement in the smooth curve of his throat, the way his chest rose underneath the blue silk as he leaned back his head. _Malfoy._

Aunt Timila bustled over to them, set one shot glass down in front of Malfoy and one in front of Harry. Malfoy flinched when she touched his shoulder, and Harry had to suppress a grin when Aunt Timila patted Malfoy's hand in a gesture obviously meant to reassure him. She sat down on the bench beside Harry, raised her own glass. "Indian plum liquor, the very best. Imported illegally, of course." She grinned at both of them. "Death to Voldemort and his bloody Death Eaters." Her voice had gone sharp and serious. Playing with fire, his brave Auntie was, her words a challenge to Malfoy as much as evidence of her trust in Harry.

Harry raised the glass, said, "Death to Voldemort." It was the usual toast among members of the resistance movement, had been ever since the Destruction of Tower Bridge.

Malfoy raised his glass, too, and it suddenly struck Harry that he was one of the few people who knew that when Voldemort died, Harry would die, too. They drank the syrupy liquor, and Aunt Timila seemed satisfied, even though Malfoy had not repeated the words of the toast.

"So," she said, eyeing Malfoy curiously, "this is the reason for your cheerful mood these last days, Harry. Does he have a name?"

"Draco," Harry said, "his name's Draco."

"Hmm." Aunt Timila sipped at her liquor. "A good pure-blood name, I suppose." She leaned closer to Harry, her head at his shoulder. "Isn't he a bit young for you?" Her stage-whisper was meant for Malfoy's ears as well, who smirked into the plum liquor, damn the git. 

"Actually," Harry said, "we're the same age." 

Aunt Timila looked from him to Malfoy in utter disbelief, then rolled her eyes. "Another wizarding thing, I'm certain. I'm not even going to ask."

"I quite like the pepper-and-salt look on him." Malfoy's voice was warm, and Harry was taken aback by the look of open admiration in his eyes. He self-consciously combed his fingers through his hair, as unruly as ever, the grey wisps the only indication that his body did indeed age. 

Malfoy surprised him even more when he suddenly turned towards Aunt Timila. "Madam –"

"Oh, no need for formalities, Draco," she said. "Don't know how you address each other up among the high and lofty, but down here it's Aunt Timila." She lightly patted Harry's thigh under the table, a secret signal that while she might not fully approve of his choice, she liked Malfoy well enough. 

"Aunt Timila, very well." Malfoy made it sound like some aristocratic title, and Harry hid his smile behind the liquor glass. Malfoy turned towards the counter. "The swifts … would it be all right if I let them out of the cage?" He looked to Aunt Timila who had suddenly gone rigid. Harry sat up and put his glass down. He shot Malfoy a warning glance, asking him silently what he was up to.

"They come every summer," Aunt Timila said, all playfulness gone from her voice. "Out under the eaves in the backyard they have a nest." She sounded defensive, as if she was daring Malfoy to take the birds from her. "For six years now, they have been nesting," she added with a stubborn pride.

"I promise you, they won't fly away."

Aunt Timila reached for Harry's hand under the table, and he assured her with a soft squeeze. She took a deep breath, nodded hesitantly. Malfoy's gaze lingered on her face for another moment, then he raised his right arm and for a second a silver light shimmered around his hand. There was a metallic noise from the birdcage, a soft bird's cry and a wild batting of wings, then two small swifts were fluttering around Malfoy. He held out his hand, and the white-bellied birds landed on his outstretched arm. Aunt Timila made a startled movement, and Harry put his hand on her arm. "He's good with birds," he said, entranced by the strange sight of Malfoy all focused on the fragile creatures. Harry felt magic rolling off him in slow, flickering waves.

"Swifts," Malfoy said quietly, "fly between the worlds. They can pass behind the veil and come back. They carry the messages of the dead." He looked up, over to Aunt Timila. "You shouldn't keep them in a cage. They are born to fly."

Aunt Timila grabbed Harry's hand and held on to him tightly. "Those birds told me that Bibhas made it, that he's well, wherever he is now." She sounded old suddenly, her voice all rough and shaken. Bibhas, her husband. Killed six years ago, his body ripped apart by a stray gang of Inferi. Aunt Timila had appeared at a meeting the next evening, asking for her three daughters to be Portkeyed out of London. Harry had met her that night for the first time.

Malfoy nodded. "They will always come back to you then. I give you my word." He kept looking at Aunt Timila.

"Harry?" She turned to him, and he saw tears in her eyes.

"Shh, Auntie, it's all right." Harry put his arm around her waist, and Aunt Timila leaned against him, looking at the birds perched on Malfoy's arm. "Let them go," he said, and when Aunt Timila nodded, Malfoy released the Spell. The swifts let out soft excited calls and were gone within the blink of an eye, zooming out through the backdoor. 

"There's Death Eaters out there, looking for swifts," Aunt Timila said in a tired voice. "They are catching them with nets, in Hyde Park. I didn't want them to get caught."

"They are catching swifts?" Malfoy's voice had gone cold, the steel in it icy. And something else that Harry had never heard from him, powerful and dangerous, even more so because underneath Harry sensed, blurry and half-acknowledged, a strange dread. 

A sudden memory flashed though his mind, of a short beak ripped off and dark brown feathers strewn over a marble floor. "Voldemort was killing a swift last time we were connected through the link," he said. 

Aunt Timila stared at him, her eyes wide open. But Harry looked at Malfoy who had gone paler than he'd ever seen him and wouldn't meet his gaze. His face was turned towards the window, he let go off the glass, deliberately, as if he was afraid to break it. His left hand was slowly clenching into a fist. Harry could tell he was struggling hard to keep down some panic threatening to overcome him. "Malfoy?" he asked. "What is it?"

Malfoy turned his head, his eyes locked with Harry's. "I'm going to use _Legilimens_ on you, Potter. Show me what you see."

At his side, Aunt Timila flinched at the commanding tone of Malfoy's voice. Harry felt the soft nudge, as his Occlumency was broken down by the strength of Malfoy's magic, even before he could lower the mental barrier he always kept up to prevent Voldemort's intrusions. He meant to show Malfoy what had happened earlier this day, when Voldemort had raged because the Blue Phoenix had not appeared. But his mind chose another memory, or perhaps Malfoy had drawn it out, an old one Harry hardly knew he remembered, from perhaps three years ago. From one moment to the next, the light in the diner grew murky, the warmth of Aunt Timila's body beside him left and _... sudden alarm rushes through him, he is drenched in sweat, he is in Voldemort's mind, it is Voldemort's fright that he is feeling ... a bird perched on top of the opened wing of a high window, a tree in bloom reflected in the glass, a peaceful sight, but such terror, he wants to run, to hide, but there's nowhere, nowhere –_

The wall was solid and warm against his back, he was panting and holding Malfoy's hands in a death grip. "Too much …," he whispered, then, "Bloody hell! What was he so fucking afraid of?" Malfoy squatted before him, between Harry's legs, and the feel of his body so close calmed Harry down.

"Could you understand what the swift told him?" Malfoy asked.

Harry shook his head. The bird … a swift, he was certain now. But all he had heard was potent, frightful silence.

Malfoy gripped his hands harder, Harry felt the nudge in his mind. Just at the fringe of his consciousness he heard Aunt Timila's anxious voice. "What is happening to him? Stop it, you have to stop it, Draco." 

Harry managed, "It's all right, Auntie," then he was back in the red-walled room. But the memory was different now, it was Malfoy's memory of what he had seen in Harry's mind. Voldemort's terror was subdued, pushed aside by Malfoy's presence. The bird's eyes were a deep black, they shimmered like dark pearls. Its legs were so short that its white belly seemed to be touching the window frame. Its tail dipped against the glass in a slow, steady rhythm. And all of a sudden Harry could understand the swift's message from the dead to Voldemort. There were no words, no strange bird language, but the images were clear enough: an overcast sky, rolling fields, a glittering tiara thrown carelessly into the mud, a blue-patterned shirt, a broad face with red cheeks, a wand held in a thick, calloused hand. The wand would have looked entirely out of place if not for the eyes in that simple face – hollow and hungry, intent to get back what had been taken from them. _A life for a piece of Voldemort's soul._

As deadly green light flashed through Harry's mind, he heard Malfoy's voice close by, _The Dark Lord's nightmares._ Harry answered silently, _Must be that peasant he killed in Albania,_ and he felt Malfoy agree. Harry looked up to the swift, which stared down at them, at Voldemort. Reflected in the window was not the blooming tree, but a grey rounded wall belonging to a bigger building with a smaller, cranellated rotunda on top. The building seemed to lead off from the room where Voldemort resided. This was what Malfoy had seen – no memory was quite like the other. 

Harry became aware that Aunt Timila was stroking his arm. He meant to break the mental connection when he felt Malfoy lower his defences. _Show me this place,_ his voice said. Harry carefully used Legilimency through their already established bond. He brought up the memories of this afternoon, they were the clearest ever: the low, wide room with the red walls, the gigantic chest, the dragon figurine he'd seen so many times, Cattermole and the woman fleeing through those wide, wooden doors, the dead bodies out in the shadowed hall. He felt Malfoy wanting to press on, like he himself had wanted to, to see what was behind those doors, but there was only darkness.

He opened his eyes, grateful for the warm light of the diner. The food seemed to smell stronger, even more appetising than before. Malfoy was breathing hard, their hands still entwined, resting in Harry's lap. "Voldemort shut down the link," Harry explained. "He never goes out into that hall."

Malfoy let go off Harry's hands and slowly got up. His gaze never left Harry's face. "That is Temple Church," he said in a light, conversational tone that didn't fool Harry for a second. Not when Malfoy's eyes were burning into him, too bright and pleading for something, but Harry had no idea what. 

"Malfoy …" Harry moved to keep him close.

But Malfoy stepped back, out of Harry's reach. "It's where Cattermole keeps the Spiteful Child."

*

They had decided to meet an hour before sunrise at the Victoria Embankment, not three hundred yards from Temple Church. Hidden by a strong Fidelius Charm, it had been Disillusioned from sight, Obliviated from living memory, through all these years. No magic in this world would have allowed Harry to see, let alone enter the old Templars' Church. Lucky for him, the Blue Phoenix knew the Secret Keeper of the place.

 _The Spiteful Child …_ It was one of Voldemort's legendary creatures, much like the Blue Phoenix. A child, bald, its age hard to guess, four or perhaps eight years old, with the shrivelled face of an old man. People alternately described it as hunchbacked or grossly fat, its legs crippled. But everyone who had seen it remembered the red, raw-looking skin and the short-winded, ragged breathing. The Child would walk the streets at night, whimpering and crying, until some unknowing Muggle or wizard came close to offer help. Nobody knew what happened to those taken in by the Spiteful Child. Dementors' prey, Harry assumed. For the longest time he had doubted that there was more to this tale than some Muggles' distraught imaginings. But then he had seen the Child himself, in the darkness, at the guarded gate into the Ghetto. He had been afraid of it, had not wanted to go near to it. How anybody could willingly, out of kindness even, approach it, had been a mystery to him. The magic emanating from it had been immensely powerful, but it had been wild and uncontrolled like a child's.

When Voldemort had been killed by his own Killing Curse, the last tiny fragment of his soul had entered the Horcrux he had prepared for it, even before the battle: the Elder Wand. But his feeble, depleted body had not been able to survive, all of Voldemort's life-extending magic notwithstanding. Harry had seen it laid out on a bier in the chamber off the Great Hall, and he had sensed no magic at all, but strangely, only peace. The soul fragment in the Horcrux must have sought for the one physical manifestation of Voldemort that was still left in this world, the thumping, whimpering thing Harry had seen at King's Cross, in that twilight zone between this life and beyond. He had no idea how Voldemort's restless ghost had brought the child to London, or how he had managed to imbue it with this strange half-life, but somehow he had. The Spiteful Child was not one of his creations, it _was_ Voldemort, as much as any being could still be called Voldemort.

All of this, Harry and Malfoy had pieced together at Aunt Timila's, after Malfoy's discovery that it must be Voldemort who was hiding inside of Temple Church. He had been quiet and withdrawn, but willing enough to discuss Harry's plans for getting close to the Spiteful Child and finally make an end of the Dark Lord. 

Since then, a silver tail feather of the phoenix was all that Harry had seen of him. Dropped on the asphalt close to the departure point Longbottom had selected for the refugee trek, which Harry had Portkeyed out to Hogwarts yesterday. His last mission. Harry had picked up the feather, taken it for a sign that the location was safe. He had scanned the sky for the phoenix, but there had only been thick dark fog. Malfoy had refused to come back to Grimmauld Place with Harry when they had left Aunt Timila's, had barely stayed long enough for Harry to kiss him good-bye before he'd Disapparated right from Dartmouth Park Hill. Harry had sent an owl to St Paul's, a dangerous means of communication these days, a risk for sender, bird and recipient, but no answer had come. He had stood on the steps of the Cathedral twice, but he had not dared to Apparate up to the belfry. Malfoy had made it very clear that he did not want to see him again before they went for Voldemort. And Harry missed him like crazy, wanted nothing more than to spend every free second with him, but this was Malfoy's choice. Harry would be gone when the day was over. And Malfoy would be staying behind, bound to the Blue Phoenix and the task Dumbledore had chosen him for. 

Harry tried to concentrate on what lay ahead of him. He felt for the Elder Wand, nestled close to his own wand, up in the sleeve of his jacket. Voldemort would die today. 

But as he waited on the embankment, staring into the fog on the water, he couldn't help wondering what would become of Malfoy. Would he turn into the phoenix for good, lose all that still made him human, speech, tastes and inhibitions, the memories of his life, of Harry, of what he felt for Harry? Of how he desired him? And would that allow Malfoy to become a true phoenix, live out the creature's solitary life, poised between fire and sky, until after a thousand years, its time came, finally, and it would lay its egg into the nest of cinnamon and burst into flames for the very last time? _It is for the best,_ Hermione's voice kept repeating in Harry's mind, but his stomach cramped painfully whenever he thought of it. He didn't want Malfoy to become the phoenix, he wanted him to … God, it was not possible, no use to pursue that train of thought. Harry Potter was the Boy Who Lived To Kill You-Know-Who. There was no other way. Fate, Dumbledore would have said.

Two shadowy figures approached quickly, having stepped out of the fog a mere forty yards away from Harry. He would have recognised Malfoy anywhere, despite the Death Eater's mask he wore over his face. The small person at his side was wrapped head to toes in green robes. When they came closer Harry recognised the woman form Voldemort's quarters. 

"She is the Secret Keeper of St Anne's Chapel." Malfoy's voice sounded hollow underneath the mask. A phoenix's beak was crudely cut from the bleached bone. "She will take us in."

"Blimey, Malfoy, I'm not going anywhere until you take that stupid thing off."

Harry thought he saw a satisfied gleam in the woman's eyes. He slightly nodded at her in greeting, and she returned his nod. Definitely amusement, he could see it clearly now. And she seemed exasperated with Malfoy's antics, the way she glared at him.

Malfoy stood very still, then he removed the mask quickly, tossed it way out into the river. There was a short moment when water seemed to pour from the dark eye-holes, then it was gone, taken by the sluggish waves. 

"Fuck you, Harry Potter," Malfoy whispered. His hair hung loosely into his face, his red-rimmed eyes glittered feverishly, he was white as a sheet. His features were even sharper than usually, Harry could see he hadn't eaten these past days. Without another thought he took Malfoy in his arms.

"God, Malfoy," he said softly, kissed his hair, didn't know what else to say. Malfoy's body was tense, he trembled ever so slightly and wouldn't stop no matter how close Harry held him. He let him go after a few seconds. Clearly Malfoy couldn't take comfort from Harry's embrace now. Harry stayed close to him, though, held on to the sleeve of his robes, when Malfoy wanted to move away from him. 

The woman had stepped back and watched them curiously from the embankment. Her dark shape seemed like a statue with only the water and the mist behind her. For a moment Harry saw Malfoy naked, standing by the round window of St Paul's, his skin dark blue like the phoenix's plumage, the red light of the sun behind him, setting over an alien, empty landscape.

He grabbed Malfoy's arm, held on to him so tightly it had to hurt, and Malfoy looked at him in surprise, but didn't shake Harry's hand off.

"Now then, let's go in and finish the bastard." Malfoy was trying for some daredevil audacity and failing spectacularly at it. He shrugged, that lop-sided shrug, and Harry wanted nothing so much as to kiss him.

"Death to Voldemort," he said, pushing the hair out of Malfoy's face. 

"Death to Voldemort." Malfoy's words were barely a whisper. He turned quickly towards the woman who waved at them to get going. The first light of the rising sun was bleeding red through the mist.

Side by side they walked up King's Bench Walk, the woman leading them through the dilapidated buildings. Harry asked, "She doesn't speak?"

"Only with birds," Malfoy answered absently. He had his eyes trained on something in front of them, but Harry couldn't see what it was.

*

Afterwards Harry thought how he had always wondered what sort of power Dumbledore had used to destroy the Horcrux lodged in Marvolo Gaunt's ring. Basilisk venom, Fiendfyre, the poisonous blade of the Gryffindor sword… But Dumbledore had used none of these, Harry knew that now.

 _"Well, here I thought the Master of the Wand would just snap this stick,"_ Malfoy had said, the typical Malfoy smirk ghosting over his pale, thin face, when Harry had cast, for the umpteenth time, another Reductor Curse at the bloody thing. Call it a flaw in their plan, a fatal misjudgement of Harry's considerable magical powers, whatever – Harry had been at a loss how to destroy the Horcrux. Then Malfoy, without explanation or warning, had Transfigured into the Blue Phoenix. 

Now the bird was hovering underneath the Round Church's dome of glass, silver light shooting from the tips of its wings to the stone floor. But it wasn't the light that was damaging the Elder Wand. Rather, it held it upright, perhaps a yard above the ground. What made gooey, dark red drops leak from the wand's tip was the unearthly, high-pitched scream of the phoenix itself. Harry had pressed his hands over his ears, Draco's voice was reaching for such a high pitch, it hurt. In the air before him, the Elder Wand vibrated fiercely, like a cymbal struck by a drumstick. Then it broke with a quiet snap. The ensuing silence was yet so full of the echo of the phoenix's scream that Harry flinched when Malfoy stood beside him all of a sudden. A thin howling sound, like the wind outside a cottage near the sea – then Voldemort's soul was finally gone from this world, leaving a dark, coiled Thestral hair and three splintered pieces of elder wood on the floor. 

They found the Spiteful Child in the chapel leading off from the round hall. It was curled in on itself on the white marble floor, whimpering and rocking from one side to the other. Its eyes were closed, and Harry was glad for it. He didn't think he could stomach those blood-shot eyes staring at him from that small, shrivelled-up face. But then, they would be Tom Riddle's eyes, wouldn't they? For a moment it seemed important that Harry remembered the colour of Riddle's eyes – _a tall boy, with jet-black hair, a silver prefect's badge at his chest_ – but it didn't matter, it didn't matter anymore. With the last piece of Voldemort's soul gone, what lay before Harry, caught in its own wordless agony, was a ghost form, a mere semblance of life, an infant Inferi, nothing more. Harry felt Malfoy behind him, waiting at the wooden doors, when he cast, for the first time in his life, the Killing Curse. 

And then he was lying on the marble floor himself. The bright green light of the Curse reverberated from the walls like the echoing boom of a huge drum. And there was pain, ripping his chest open, and Harry tore at his jacket with both of his hands, trying to stop the agony, somehow. And it receded slowly, as the mordant green shimmer gave way to clear daylight streaming in through the high windows. He shivered, the floor underneath him was so cold. But Malfoy's hands on his face were warm. 

"Quiet … it's quiet," Harry whispered, "in my head … Forgot how quiet … bloody link … all the time …" 

It seemed too much of an effort to explain, and Malfoy understood anyway, or Harry thought he did, from the way he pushed Harry's hair back from the scar, how he kissed it so tenderly. Malfoy was crying, and Harry's face was getting all wet, and it was funny, really, that he should die with another man's tears on his face. _Listen, Malfoy …_ he meant to say, trying to share the thought, but his lips wouldn't move. His arm was touching Malfoy, who knelt beside him, and it felt so good to have him near. Harry wanted to close his eyes, fall asleep if he could, but there was so much still to feel, to see, to –

A fire-extinguisher, bright red and Muggle, not five yards from him, beside the doors. Malfoy's beautiful, beautiful hair, brushing against his skin like soft, shimmering rain. The holly wand on the floor, fallen from his hand, pointing west, guiding the way. The blue brush of a wing, and tears like pearls of ice on his cheek, his throat, his lips … and he sucks at the ice, so thirsty all of a sudden for water, for everything, for this, _this_ –

Death was the sharp tug of Apparition, the swift mercy of the dark.

*

A purple light was moving through Harry's body. It pulsed in a steady rhythm, and with each pulse there was a burst of golden sparks. His toes, arms, thighs, his face and head already were set ablaze by the light. He could nearly taste the flames flickering in his hair, like St Elmo's fire. The purple light moved on, with no pattern that Harry could detect, but flitting back and forth, darting into every part of his body. Ankles, feet, throat, groin, belly. He was made new, turned into a smouldering being of fire – sinew by sinew, drop of blood by drop of blood, bone by bone.

There was a fresh, sweet taste in Harry's mouth, like of purest water. _So this is what it feels like to be truly dead,_ he thought, and it was very different from the time he had woken in that wide-open space, after Voldemort had killed him in the Forbidden Forest. For one thing, he couldn't see very well. After a couple of yards his vision started to become blurry. And this had been different last time, hadn't it? He hadn't needed his glasses in that imaginary King's Cross Station. And he felt pain, definitely, an aching pain pervading his entire body. He moved his hand to his chest and felt the soft cotton of a shirt. The surface he was lying on was soft, too. Harry looked up into a green roof above him. 

"Harry."

He almost expected Dumbledore to walk up to him, but it was Malfoy. He was standing beside the … the bed that Harry was lying on, holding his glasses out to him. Harry took them, staring at Malfoy, who was barefoot, clothed in trousers and a white shirt that was unbuttoned almost all the way down to his waist. He gazed at Harry, an uncertain half-smile on his lips, not taking his eyes off him for a second.

"Y-you?" His voice sounded rough and shaky, much too real for this to be death. He was lying in the familiar bed, dark green canopy stretching above him between the four posts. The huge round windows, the bedside cabinet, the phoenix's nest, even the gentle breeze that always drifted through the high tower room – everything was much too real for all of this to be happening only in Harry's head. And Malfoy, Malfoy was –

Harry was up, out of the bed, and he had grabbed Malfoy's bloody white shirt in his fists in no time. "You!" he screamed, unable to keep his voice down, unable to stop his body – his living body – from shaking so hard, Harry thought he must burst with the force of it. "You," he whispered, right in Malfoy's face, a red mist rising before his eyes. "Damn you!"

Malfoy did not move away, did nothing to stop him. "Harry," he said with that gentle, soothing voice of his, and _God!_ he shouldn't have said that, not Harry's name, not another one of his scheming intimacies, taking Harry in, making him believe that Malfoy, Draco Malfoy, for God's sake, could care enough for him to understand, to fucking understand –

He threw the punch without even taking aim, hit right into Malfoy's mouth. There was the sharp crack of broken teeth, and Malfoy's head snapped back. Blood spurted in a wide arc onto Harry's face, onto Malfoy's white shirt, and Harry flung Malfoy's body away from him as hard as he could.

Malfoy crashed to the floor, for a second he lay unmoving on his side, but he recovered quickly, leaned up on one elbow, moved his hand slowly across his mouth. And he said it again, blood smears on his chin and knuckles – _"Harry"_ – and he just couldn't shut up now, could he? 

Harry lunged at him, and Malfoy turned to get away from him, but Harry got hold of that blond hair, yanked it back with full force, and Malfoy screamed in pain, but still Harry wouldn't, he just couldn't let go. He leaned forward, brought his mouth to Malfoy's ear. "How," he whispered, "how the fuck could you do this to me? You knew how much I wanted to go. That I need to die, that I can't –" His voice broke, and he couldn't help but press his body against Malfoy and knock, knock his forehead against that stubborn, stupid bastard's head.

Silver light flashed, and Malfoy was gone from Harry's grip, sprawled on the floor a few yards away from Harry. He was furious now, too, Harry could tell by the dark light flashing in his eyes. 

"You would never have come so far without me," he spat at Harry, the steel in his voice unforgiving. "You'd be still searching for the Horcrux. You'd be looking for Voldemort in Buckingham Palace, of all places. Merlin, you couldn't even destroy that bloody wand without me." He pushed himself up to knees and elbows, stood before Harry who was still on the floor. He searched Harry's face, looking for something, and Harry'd be damned if he knew what. "You owe me this, Potter." His voice had gone raw and shaky, and he said it again, "You owe it to me."

He turned, left Harry kneeling on the floor, walked to the window and looked out into the bright sunshine of a beautiful summer day, the first day with Voldemort gone. Harry stared after him, thinking that he would never ever, in whatever was left of his life, understand Slytherins. Owe it to him? He scrambled to his feet, stepped closer to Malfoy, moving cautiously and not touching him. Malfoy turned his head slightly, there were tears in his eyes.

"God, Malfoy, " Harry said softly, recalling everything he knew of Draco the phoenix to understand what it was that Malfoy wanted from him, "if … if there was a way, any way that I could help you, I swear, I would. But I cannot give you … that egg." He moved even closer, put one tentative hand on Malfoy's shoulder. "Please, don't go mental on me. You know … you must know that I can't be this green-eyed phoenix for you." 

A shiver ran through Malfoy's body, as he lay his hand over Harry's, squeezing it softly. 

"Ah, but now," he whispered, never taking his eyes from the sunlit horizon, "now you can."

*

Malfoy was asleep on the four-poster bed. His hair looked damp, there were tearstains on his face. Red, fresh scratch marks ran across his chest and all the way down his right side. The fly of his trousers was open, his cock was lying limp and fragile-looking on his belly, half-covered by his pants. Dried come was splattered all over his stomach. His left arm was flung out on the blanket, in that painfully crooked angle.

Harry gently moved the arm and stretched out beside Malfoy on the bed. He shifted carefully, not wanting to wake the other man. Not yet. The afternoon sun was shining on Malfoy's face, he looked so peaceful and calm as Harry had rarely seen him. The phoenix's powers had healed the cut in his lip, the damage caused by Harry's punch. The scratch marks would soon be gone as well. Harry traced his fingers across them, wondering what strange pleasure Malfoy had taken from inflicting them on his body. He moved lower, picking flakes of come from Malfoy's skin, rubbing them between his fingers, inhaling the darkly tangy smell of another bloke's spunk. _Human,_ he thought, _human still._

Harry had spent the last hours in the phoenix's nest, resting, sleeping – roosting, he should say –, getting used to his Animagus form. Transfiguration had been a simple act of magic, much like casting _Lumos_ or _Alohomora_. His plumage was red streaked with gold, with a black trail and crest, just as Malfoy had seen him in his dreams. Harry had tested his wings, after the first shock, circled St Paul's, he hadn't dared to fly further. Malfoy had watched him from the tower's window, pure joy in his face and unabashed, barely restrained desire, if Harry had read the signs right.

 _"You are what Fawkes meant Phoenix to be,"_ Malfoy had said when Harry returned to the tower and his human form. _"Dumbledore was wrong. He should have chosen you."_

He had wanted to touch Harry, kiss him, but Harry hadn't been able to let him close. His body had still felt too vulnerable, too new, like it was a thing apart from him, like he would lose himself if he let anyone, even Malfoy, touch him. His gaze had fallen on the nest, and he been drawn towards it, by instinct. He thought that Malfoy understood, for he didn't stop him when he Transfigured back into the phoenix, soared up to the ceiling and alighted on the nest. The cinnamon smell soothed him, and he slowly got used to breathing like a bird, each inhalation a flood of pure air, feeding directly into his blood. And this body was light, so much lighter than Harry had imagined, judging from the phoenix's size. He lost his balance a couple of times when he tried to stand on those powerful black talons, holding on to the twigs. But he had figured it out eventually, and then he had slept, in a sitting position, safely wrapped in the smell of cinnamon, dreaming bird dreams of clouds and wind.

He felt Malfoy's gaze on him and looked up to see him awake. Malfoy lifted his arm and cautiously touched Harry's hair. "You," he whispered.

Harry edged closer, brought his skin into full contact with Malfoy's half-dressed body, letting him know that it was okay to touch him now. "Bloody wanker," he said, moving his fingers lightly over Malfoy's cock. "Couldn't wait for me, could you?"

Malfoy chuckled and pulled Harry on top of him. He stroked him with eager hands, everywhere, thighs, arse, waist, back, shoulders, neck. "Didn't know if you were still interested," he whispered as he leaned up to kiss Harry. When their lips touched, Harry felt Malfoy's cock twitch, and he pushed his groin against him. "Yeah, still interested," he said as Malfoy moaned underneath him. Harry traced Malfoy's upper lip with his tongue, feeling for the cut, but there was only soft, moist flesh. Their kiss deepened, and Harry thought he could come just from kissing Malfoy, he felt so good. He panted when they broke apart, buried his face at the side of Malfoy's neck. They were both hard, hips moving in a slow, languid rhythm.

"You can, um … reach orgasm now?" It was a stupid question, really, when he had smelled Malfoy's come on his own fingers, but he needed to know, had to understand. 

Malfoy turned his head and looked at him. "Yes," he said, nothing more. 

"I don't get it."

"You are here. You are a phoenix Animagus. Phoenix thinks we will mate." He reached between their bodies for Harry's cock and stroked it gently, much too gently. "Don't you feel it, too?" His voice was soft, fearful.

Harry didn't really know what he was supposed to feel. He wanted Malfoy, had wanted him since that first night in the tower. Wanted to fuck him, get fucked by him, blow him, rim him, suck him dry. Get him off any possible way a bloke could get another bloke off. If Phoenix called this mating, fine with him. But whatever they did, they couldn't possibly –

"Will that work, Malfoy? I mean, we are still both males, and –"

"Hermaphrodite," Malfoy interrupted him, "hermaphroditic in nature. Neither male nor female. Both male and female." His grey eyes were on Harry, he stopped stroking him, just held Harry's cock in his fist, squeezing and gently releasing it, as he had that first time. "Do you understand what I'm saying, Harry?"

Harry did, or he thought he did, and he tried to get his mind around it, but he couldn't, not really, not like Malfoy wanted him to. And then – it was all too much, he had lived for so long and he'd died and had been changed and please, _please_ … Tears started running down his face that he hadn't known were burning in his eyes, his whole body shook with sobs he couldn't hold back any longer. Malfoy's body tensed in startled surprise, and Harry pressed himself closer to him. Malfoy wrapped both his arms around him and held him tight. He kissed Harry's chin, lips, nose, eyelids, whispered softly, sounds more than words, soothing him. 

"Will you," Harry whispered, "will you just simply fuck me? I've … I've wanted you to all that time. Will you? Please?"

"Merlin, Potter, yes. Yes. I'll fuck you any which way you want me to." Malfoy laughed softly and pulled Harry even closer.

"And go easy on me," Harry managed, laughing too, through the tears. "I haven't bottomed in years."

"I'll take you as easy and slow as you need to. We have all day."

They lay quiet for long minutes, until Harry was calm again and relaxed. Then Malfoy pulled Harry's body up further and started stroking his buttocks. Soon his fingers were sliding up and down Harry's crack. Harry spread his legs, so Malfoy could reach further, widening Harry's hole with his fingers. Malfoy's stiff cock was brushing against his arse, leaking pre-come. Harry felt himself get wet and loose, and he clenched his arse, trying to pull Malfoy's fingers into him. Their bodies moved in a slow rhythm that Harry could tell would soon turn into sharp thrusts, and the thought alone, of Malfoy piercing him, made him go even harder. 

Still, something struck him about what Malfoy had said. _We have all day._

"How can that be, Malfoy?" he asked, his voice hoarse because, really, all he wanted was for Malfoy to go on touching him like this. "We are two. Two phoenix Animagi at the same time, in the same space. That should not be possible, should it?"

Malfoy pushed two fingers into Harry's arse, making him groan with pleasure. "Your timing, Potter, has always been the worst." He pulled out again, licked hungrily at Harry's throat. Then he let his head fall back onto the pillows, and for a moment exhaustion was showing on his face. "It's a spell. It converges different time lines. I can keep it up for a day. We have until noon tomorrow." 

"All day."

Malfoy nodded, his hands lying still on Harry's buttocks.

"And then, what?"

Malfoy closed his eyes, exhaled a shivering breath. _Don't know,_ he mouthed. He shook his head, a quick jerk.

"Do you want help with it?"

Malfoy opened his eyes, and for a moment Harry saw plain relief in them, gratitude even, before Malfoy's mouth transformed into that wry smirk. "Yes, I'd like that." He brought up his left hip without any warning, and in one swift rolling movement he had Harry on his stomach, pinned beneath him. He sat up, pulled off his trousers, dropped them to the floor, then settled back on top of Harry. 

"Stretch out your left arm," he said, and Harry did, turning his face so he could look out of the round window, into the fading light of the day. Malfoy moved his own arm, until his hand covered Harry's and their fingertips touched. "It's _Tiempo dobles,_ " he said.

Harry cast the Spell at the same time as Malfoy, and magic streamed from their fingers like loosened ribbons in the wind, twirling around each other. For an instant, the moving clouds came to a halt, there was a sudden gust in the wind that always blew around the tower. Malfoy relaxed against him, as Harry felt the Spell gently feeding on his power. It was barely a pull, easily pushed to the fringes of his consciousness. 

"Good?" he asked.

"Good," Malfoy said.

*

They fucked like Harry had wanted to, Malfoy's cock buried deep within him, filling him in that stretching, burning, incredibly satisfying way. Harry had come earlier already, from having Malfoy's tongue lick and push its way into Harry's hole. But he was painfully hard again, on his stomach and knees, his arse up, legs spread too wide for his own hand to get him off and come into the pillow that Malfoy had shoved underneath him. Malfoy was thrusting into him fast and hard, his one arm on Harry's back, the other around his waist, holding on, holding him close. Their bodies were slick with sweat, Malfoy's balls were slapping against Harry's arse, and Malfoy was making beautiful, groaning noises. Harry let go of all conscious thought, didn't move anymore by himself, it was Malfoy slamming him into the bed, each thrust bringing Harry closer, closer –

A soft nudge in his mind – _Change now, Harry. Change. Please._ Malfoy's voice and a sudden vision of the Blue Phoenix. Desire swept through Harry, desire of a different kind, more forceful, almost unbearable even, and at same time gentler, less frantic. He stretched out his arms before he knew what he was doing, and Malfoy at once did the same, on top of Harry, his left arm slightly bent. A crooked blue wing covered red feathers, a silver beak was rubbing against a golden one, white crest burying into black. Harry was wide open and aching, he wanted nothing more than Draco closing in on him. And then Draco did, he brought his own hole close and pressed it against Harry's, kiss-like. Soft, screeching noises came from Harry's throat, as Draco cooed above him. They pressed against each other without any movement at all, pushing harder and harder, until Harry felt something give within him, flare up like fire at his side, and he spilled his seed into Draco, just as Draco's seed spilled into him, startlingly cold, flooding him whole.

*

It was dark in the tower room when Harry freed himself from Malfoy's embrace and got up. They had been touching and kissing, talking, too, but not much. They had this one night left. Time seemed too precious to waste on talk.

Harry felt like he needed to pee, but when he started for the stairs to get to the bathroom below, he realised his whole body was shaking. He sank to his knees, unable to stand, something strange and frightening was happening to him. He whispered, "Malfoy," and pain lashed through his right side. He screamed, "Draco!"

Malfoy was beside him as Harry felt his body break out in sweat, he was gasping for air. He needed, needed to lie down, right here on the floor.

"What, what is it, Harry?" There was panic in Malfoy's voice. He cast a _Lumos,_ his eyes wide and worried, as he looked at Harry, his hands touching his forehead and cheeks. His touch felt cool and reassuring, but Harry couldn't lie on his back anymore, he needed to curl in on himself or the pain would kill him, he was certain of it. 

"Please help me," he whispered, as he felt Malfoy draw him close, let him curl up in his lap. "Something's wrong, here." He got hold of Malfoy's hand, pressed it to his side that was swollen and hard and hurting so badly. "Make it stop, please." His voice was a whisper, dark spots were floating before his eyes. He knew he would pass out soon, any second now.

Malfoy held him close as he carefully moved his palm across Harry's side. "Shit," he said, then strangely, "Don't be afraid." He lowered Harry's head to the floor and moved away from him.

The Blue Phoenix loomed over Harry, its crest gleaming in the electric glow from below the stairs. It lowered its head, and because it seemed like the one thing that could end the agonising stabs of pain, Harry rolled around so that the bird could reach his side. The phoenix at once went for his skin, tore at it with its razor-sharp beak, slashed it open. Blood streamed from Harry's side, he gasped in shock, but there was no pain. A whitish ball-like thing slipped from his flesh, and as he watched, it rolled into his lap. The gash at his side closed at once, the stabbing pain was gone. All he felt was the imperative need to shelter the egg, to keep it close, not to let it touch the floor, to protect it with whatever he could give, his body, his magic, all his strength, his entire being. He sat up, pulled the egg towards his belly, where a soft patch of skin seemed to mould against the round form. The egg felt soft and frail in his hands. 

Slowly he became aware that Malfoy was kneeling in front of him. In the soft light of the _Lumos_ Harry could see his achingly brilliant smile.

"It's alive," he whispered, and as Malfoy reached out to touch it, Harry knew that only Malfoy could do so. Only he could touch the egg and not have Harry go mental. 

"It's still part of you," Malfoy said as he moved his hand across the translucent shell. Harry felt Malfoy's fingers as if he was touching his own skin. "Make me come, Harry."

For a moment Harry couldn't think of what Malfoy could possibly mean. Then he saw his erect cock, pre-come glistening on its tip. Malfoy put one hand on Harry's shoulder to steady himself. The other hand he laid around the egg, holding it, sheltering it. Harry reached for him, pulled him closer, so that Malfoy's groin was almost touching the egg. 

"You're sure about this?" he asked. 

Malfoy nodded, his eyes on the egg between them, his breathing fast and shallow. There was a shadow moving within the shell, and it felt as if something stirred inside of Harry. He curled his fingers around Malfoy's cock, and the moment his palm touched the hard flesh, he knew Malfoy was right. He gripped him tighter, slid up his entire length. Malfoy groaned, as his hips jerked forward. "Merlin," he whispered, "go easy, Potter." 

Harry couldn't help laughing, a shaky laugh of relief, for this felt so right, so good. Malfoy brought his face close, he kissed Harry softly, their foreheads touched. Malfoy came after a few firm strokes, spilled his load into Harry's hand, onto the egg, into Harry's lap. As the first drop of semen touched the egg, its shell became opaque, a stark impenetrable white, as if it had hardened all of a sudden. Harry felt it slide away from his stomach, and Malfoy caught it before it rolled onto the floor. And it was all right, it wouldn't break, wouldn't be harmed, that overwhelming sense of the egg's fragility was gone. This was the phoenix's egg. 

Malfoy got up, the egg in one hand. He held out his other hand to Harry, pulled him up from the floor. "How do you feel?" he asked with something like hushed awe in his voice.

Harry leaned against him, more because he wanted to have him close than for support. "I'm not sure. No pain, at least."

"I would have done it, you know. I wanted it so very much." Malfoy gently held the egg to his breast. 

"You're pants at breeding," Harry said and licked Malfoy's ear, kissed it with a sudden need. God, how he loved this man.

Malfoy drew his head away, as he put an arm around Harry's waist and pulled him close. "That tickles, Potter. Get a grip on yourself."

"What happens now?"

"The egg goes into the nest, obviously." Malfoy walked towards the phoenix's nest, taking Harry with him.

"Obviously."

"It doesn't need hatching. The phoenix is solitary, from the moment of its birth. We wrap it in myrrh and frankincense, then set fire around it, to keep it warm." Malfoy carefully laid the egg into its nest of cinnamon twigs. It seemed too small, a little white thing in the middle of the huge nest that could shelter a grown phoenix. Malfoy crouched down on the floor, opened a small wooden box that Harry hadn't noticed before. He got out two handfuls of small, reddish-brown and yellowish rocks. Or Harry thought they were rocks, but when he touched them, they were sticky and smooth. A pungent, spicy smell filled the air, mingling with the sharp sweetness of cinnamon. 

"You made that all up yourself, didn't you? About the cinnamon and the myrrh and stuff?" Harry said as he watched Malfoy pour the small rocks into the nest, heaping them closely around the egg.

"Not one thing, Potter. You can check it all in Scamander's book. Fifty-eighth edition. I told you." He reached for Harry's hand, laced his fingers through Harry's, pointed both their hands at the nest. "The Spell is a slow-burning _Incendio._ Do go easy, Potter. None of your Gryffindorish overcompensation, not this time."

Harry nodded with a grin, said _"Incendio"_ in a soft voice, as he felt Malfoy cast the Spell non-verbally. A bluish flame curled up, burned its way slowly all around the rim of the nest, a faint aroma like vanilla rose from it with the smoke. Soon, the egg was engulfed by a ring of softly smouldering flames. _A fiery horizon …_

"And it will be all right?"

Malfoy nodded. "Our job is done," he said before he leaned over to Harry and kissed him.

*

Harry came up the stairs, a bowl of raspberries in his hand. The white porcelain had the Malfoy crest painted on the inside, where dust had been collecting. Harry didn't think that Malfoy had used the dishes in years. Last night he had made sure that Malfoy ate, but then they had both been in their phoenixes's shapes, picking up grains from the floor. There was something to be said for birdseed in its undigested form, Harry had to admit, as he recalled the sweet, almost honeyed taste of oat on his tongue.

Malfoy sat on the floor close to the bed, teacup in hand, in a blurry circle of morning light streaming in through the window. It promised to be another clear and sunny day. The weather gods must be celebrating, too, now that Voldemort was gone.

"Breakfast?" Harry put the bowl down, pulled Malfoy's blue robes closer around his body and sat down as well, behind Malfoy, leaning against the bed. "Phoenix's favourite," he added, and Malfoy smiled at him from over the rim of the cup.

They ate in silence. On the other side of the tower room, the egg was barely visible in the huge phoenix nest. There was the faint glow of the fire, the incense's spicy fragrance wafted over with each stirring of the wind. _It will be fine,_ Malfoy had assured Harry during the night, telling him all he had learned from Scamander's book, all that he knew about phoenix breeding.

This morning Malfoy seemed lost in thought, the way his eyes drifted off towards the window, always searching the horizon. Harry followed his gaze, but all he could see was sun, light blue sky, a few clouds drifting by. It made him itch to spread Phoenix's wings and fly.

Earlier, in the cold, crystal clear light of the hour just before dawn, he had held Malfoy close in his arms and asked: _"Are you ready to go?"_

 _"I don't think I'll ever be ready,"_ Malfoy had replied.

 _Me neither,_ Harry had meant to say, but of course it wasn't the same for him. Harry had a hard time letting go, holding on to life like he'd always been holding on to everything, places, people, promises, bloody prophecies even. He still couldn't think of Sirius without his heart skipping a beat, he couldn't look at an owl without seeing a bit of Hedwig in it. Hell, he still talked to Hermione after fifty-three years. And Ron – there had been days when Harry had looked at his shadow and seen Ron's shadow behind it, with him always, right up to the end.

Looking out over London, Harry felt curious questions stir in his thoughts – what about the Dementors, the Inferi? Who would be the new Minister for Magic? Would they turn Sanctuary into Hogwarts again, re-open the venerable School of Witchcraft and Wizardry? Would Aunt Timila's daughters come back from Mumbai? But all of this was no longer his life. He was still here only because of a Spell, a Spell that was faintly, but constantly draining his magic.

Malfoy? It was all different for Malfoy. Nothing kept him here, in this life, except maybe his feathered friends. Harry had only seen glimpses of the Blue Phoenix's involvement with the birds: Malfoy mentioning the eagles, his acquaintance with the bird Animagus, the Secret Keeper of Voldemort's hiding place. None of that had struck Harry as bonds that Malfoy would find hard to leave behind. No, Harry was certain, Malfoy would go at once, happily, if it were not for the fire. Malfoy was plain afraid. Which was odd, really, considering all that he had gone through, but that was easy for Harry to say, wasn't it? He had died twice already. God, he was becoming some kind of an expert at dying.

Harry chuckled as he popped another raspberry into his mouth, enjoying its acerbic sweetness, stronger even with the memory of what the fruit tasted like for the phoenix.

Malfoy turned to him, long fingers around the cup, the porcelain a sharp white against the black of his trousers. The spattering of hair on his chest gleamed golden in the sunlight. _We will go together,_ Harry thought, and he had said as much to Malfoy last night.

"Something amusing that you want to tell me, Potter?"

Harry shook his head. "Just some deep, silly thoughts."

Malfoy raised an eyebrow, moved his teacup encouragingly. "Well?" he said, putting a hand on Harry's knee that was covered by the robes.

"Do you think somewhere there is a painting with the two of us in it?" The question had come from nowhere, but of course Harry's mind was already moving on, asking questions about the future when the present was no longer for him. Telling Malfoy that there was something beyond the fire. That paintings allowed the dead to speak with the living, and they allowed the dead to speak with the dead, too.

"Pretty deep thoughts, profound even, I can tell." That sharp, mocking tone, fiercely at odds with Malfoy's intimate touch, as his hand moved up Harry's thigh. "I guess there must be pictures of the Slytherin and Gryffindor Quidditch teams from our year. With both of us in it, hating each other's guts, no doubt." He smirked at Harry, but quickly became serious again. "If they survived the demolition of Hogwarts, that is."

"They did," Harry said. "The trophy room was part of the Unplottable section. It was found untouched under the ruins." There was another picture, of course, printed in the Daily Prophet and reprinted in each one of Skeeter's biographies: taken at Malfoy's trial, the first one, when Draco Malfoy had been acquitted of all charges, because of Harry's testimony. The picture captured the moment when Harry had given Malfoy back his wand, after the trial, in the Ministry's Atrium. There had been a stray beam of light coming from the magicked glass ceiling, reflecting on Malfoy's hair and Harry's glasses. It had given the picture a kind of ethereal quality, making it a symbol after the war, representing the fervent hopes of the wizarding world for reconciliation. Harry was sure that somewhere there existed a painting of it.

"Shit, I will even visit that bloody picture, just so I can see you," Malfoy said softly, "boy hero and all." He leaned back and kissed Harry lightly. 

The flavour of raspberries and tea, so familiar, so much a part of Malfoy's distinctive taste. And underneath – cinnamon, sharp and sweet, always. Harry felt his own body humming as he kissed Malfoy back, eager for his tongue, his warm breath. "Since when can you read my mind?" he murmured.

"You've always been way too easy to read." Malfoy's voice was low and husky as he moved closer to Harry, knelt between his legs, touched Harry's face, gently removed his glasses. "Don't worry about making this easier for me, Potter. I'll be fine once we're in the air." He kissed Harry again, with a need that made Harry pull him closer eagerly. When they broke apart, Malfoy turned his head towards the window, he squinted into the sun that was rapidly climbing into the sky. Then he surprised Harry by settling between his legs, his back against Harry's chest. He took Harry's hand, pressed it against his groin. Malfoy's cock was hard and straining against the tight fit of his trousers. He leaned his head against Harry's shoulder, brought his mouth to his ear. "But there is one thing you can do for me," he whispered.

Harry slowly moved his hands down the insides of Malfoy's thighs, then carefully opened the fly. Malfoy groaned when his cock sprang from the confining cloth. He didn't wear any pants, and the feel of his naked skin beneath the rough wool sent a sharp thrill through Harry as he pulled off the trousers. He put his arms around Malfoy's body, wrapping him into the sleeves of the robes, eager to get his hands back on him. They had fucked during the night, more than once, but the need was back, as strong as ever, to have Malfoy come, for him, with him. Harry moved his palms over the scars on Malfoy's chest, over his nipples, kissed his hair, as the other man shuddered under his touch. 

"God, I can't get enough of you," he whispered, pulling Malfoy's body close for a moment before he slid his hands down to his stomach. "You're bloody gorgeous when you come."

Malfoy turned his head, looked at him with eyes hazy and dark with desire. "Don't be ridiculous," he murmured, "you're the pretty one here." He reached for Harry's face, traced his jaw, his left ear, buried his fingers in Harry's hair.

Harry started stroking Malfoy's cock slowly, firmly, delighting in the feel of the hot, hard flesh. Malfoy's hips moved to the rhythm of his strokes in leisurely, unhurried thrusts. Sweat gathered at his throat and on his chest, his hands found Harry's thighs underneath the robes, he was digging into naked skin. His breathing went ragged, he licked hungrily at Harry's neck. A shiver ran through his body, as the first drop of pre-come oozed from his cock. Harry slid the tight foreskin back, rubbed his thumb lightly over the wet slit, and Malfoy pushed his hips up, moaned, "Make me, make me come ..." the last word a deep groan as Harry wrapped his fingers around Malfoy's tightly contracted balls. Malfoy's body arched, his slippery cock was thrusting wildly into Harry's hand. It took only a couple of strokes to bring him off. His head fell back, he cried out Harry's name, his whole body shaken by violent convulsions. Spunk shot in a low arc onto his chest and belly, drops of it splattered hot and white over Harry's fingers.

The next moment, Malfoy's body went fluid and light, as he relaxed against Harry. Low after-throbs of pleasure pulsed within the silken flesh of his sac that Harry still cradled in one hand. He couldn't help looking at Malfoy's face gone soft, almost blurry with release, all guards down, his eyes closed, his mouth loose and slack, half-opened lips still trembling ever so lightly. Harry just had to catch those lips with his own, drinking in the small wordless sounds. Malfoy's body twisted as he reached up into Harry's hair again, and with a strength Harry didn't think anyone could muster so shortly after orgasm he pulled him close. The next moment they were rolling on the floor and kissing hard. Malfoy squeezed his hand between their bodies, reaching for Harry's cock. And Harry had hardly noticed how hard he was, how turned on by the sharp, masculine smell of Malfoy's arousal, by his body moving against Harry in that languid, deliciously arousing way, by Malfoy, coming into his hands. He was getting light-headed, from kissing for so long and not coming up for air. But there was no way he could stop kissing Malfoy now, not when Malfoy's whole body was moulded against him, effortlessly, easily, like he belonged nowhere else but here, close to Harry, skin touching skin where the robes had fallen open. Malfoy caressed his cock, and Harry felt the tips of feathers touch him, the Blue Phoenix in his mind, in his blood, like it had been each time they'd made love, ever since they had fucked in their Animagus form, ever since they'd had sex as the birds do. He cried out, the memory as real as Malfoy's touch, he gasped for air, pulling Malfoy even closer as he came, the keen pleasure whipping through him like sharp hail, like a high wind tearing the clouds apart.

In the quiet, the sunlight was like water. Harry's breath made it move in soft rippling waves. On the floor beside him, Malfoy's hair stirred, a stark white in the bright light, and Harry released him from his hold, suddenly aware how hard he was clutching the other man towards him. Malfoy brought his hand up, traced the outline of Harry's mouth, making Harry taste the bitterness of his own come. Raspberries were rolling across the floor, from the bowl they had knocked over when they'd gone down. Malfoy picked one up, crushed it between his fingers and smeared the moist mess onto Harry's lips. 

"You," he whispered, his voice rough and shaking. Slowly he moved his tongue over Harry's lips, licked away the fruit, only to have its taste flood Harry's mouth when Malfoy kissed him deeply.

They broke apart, with Harry still trying to get his breath back. The sun was shining into Malfoy's face, making his eyes gleam silver. Harry pushed the damp strands of hair from Malfoy's forehead, brought their heads close. "I'll come back as an evil ghost if there is nothing like this where we are going," he said, surprising himself with the words.

Malfoy laughed quietly. "There's more than sex, I told you."

"Right. Needle pricks. I remember that one well." Harry moved his hands over Malfoy's come-covered belly, wrapped them around his twitching cock.

"Oh, shut up, Potter." Malfoy took Harry's hands away from his groin, but didn't let go of them as he sat up.

Harry looked at him from the floor, the outlines of his human shape dark blue against the morning light. "Ready to go now?" he asked softly. Malfoy's fingers around his hands were cold.

Malfoy turned towards the window, he looked directly into the sun. "We have a couple of hours left." He got up, taking Harry with him. "Come on, Potter, let's make some good use of them."

Harry let himself be pulled up, leaning against Malfoy with shaky knees. The robes on the floor looked like the spread-out wings of the Blue Phoenix. "Doing what?" he asked.

Malfoy was staring at the horizon again, his arm at its usual place around Harry's waist. "Well," he said, his voice light and only slightly teasing, "fuck, fly, eat, obviously. Fuck some more, perhaps. You get first choice, Potter."

The light blue was calling to Harry, sunlight streaming onto his skin. If only all the choices in his life had been that easy to make. He turned to Malfoy, looked into grey eyes glittering with joy. "So beautiful," Malfoy whispered as Harry's body burst into red and gold, shaking feathers, taking wing, a plunge from St Paul's into the sky, the Blue Phoenix in his wake.

*

They stood hand in hand by the round window of the tower. Malfoy was naked, his hair open and flying in the wind. Harry had put on the clothes he had worn yesterday – and it had been only yesterday, an eternity ago – when he had killed Voldemort. It didn't matter, they would be Transfiguring anyway. But somehow it felt right to Harry to go like this, dressed in Muggle clothing, like he had for most of his life. Malfoy had smiled when Harry'd slipped into the clothes, had nodded in silent understanding.

They didn't kiss one last time. They had done that earlier, wrapped in the flitting shadows of the four-poster bed. They didn't say a word of good-bye, because this wasn't good-bye. And they had already said all that could be said. But Malfoy was holding on to Harry's hand, so tightly it hurt. 

_We will be all right,_ he said in his mind, projecting the words by Legilimency.

 _Yes,_ Malfoy said. _Open your mind for me._

Harry pulled down all his defences. He felt Malfoy trying to hold back some of the intensity of his emotions, but the fear was clearly discernable underneath his hopeful expectancy, his exhilaration even.

 _Ready to fly?_ Harry asked, and Malfoy answered, _Ready._

At midday, when the sun was highest in the sky, they soared up into the wide blue above St Paul's, a phoenix the colour of night, a phoenix scarlet and gleaming gold like fire. 

Below them, there was a short ripple in the fabric of time, a gust of wind, a brief halt in the slow drift of the clouds. But they never noticed it as they soared ever higher into the sky. Soon the city below them was a cluster of multi-coloured specks with the black ribbon of the river curving through them. And Malfoy had been right about flying, Harry thought, with the wind beneath his wings lifting him higher and higher. One stroke made him shoot forward like an arrow released from the bow. The speed was unbelievable, the way they darted through rain-hung clouds with barely a drop of water sticking to them. 

_Higher_ , Draco said. _I knew you'd love this, but our way is up._ He was so close that the tip of his right wing was almost touching Harry's left.

Harry was so full of an overwhelming, intoxicating joy, it felt like he would burst from it. He shot up into the sky, the wings pressed close to his light, strong body, then plunged down again to where the Blue Phoenix was soaring steadily upwards. He sensed Draco's silent chuckle and flew closer to him, actually made their wings touch, which had them both tumble through the thin blue air. Draco called out with his high-pitched bird voice, a fiercely happy sound, and the same joy was within him, flashing through Harry's mind like a sharp silver light. _He is all right,_ Harry thought, and almost immediately felt Draco respond, _I am. Stop worrying, Potter. Now rise, rise, bennu._

They passed through a thick bank of billowing clouds, heavy and full with the rain of tomorrow. When they emerged from it, endless space opened around them, the air so thin, it seemed like the sky they were rushing through was made from translucent, liquid glass. Draco was leading the way now, up towards the brightness that lay ahead. 

At one point Harry thought he saw the turrets and roofs of a gleaming city of clouds. _Heliopolis,_ Draco said. _That's where we would go if we were true phoenixes._

_But we go further …_

_... further, into the fire._

They reached another bank of hazy clouds, made of hot, shimmering air, and plunged through it. After a moment of heat so intense Harry thought it would burn them, they were flying inside a sphere of light. At the horizon, blue flames flickered within shifting layers of air, reflecting rainbow slivers, a colourful, steaming ring of fire. In front of them, a ruby shone at the core of a white blinding light, so brilliant Harry had to turn his eyes away.

 _Harry,_ Draco whispered, _ready to move on?_

Their eyes met as Harry looked over to him, imprinting the vision of the Blue Phoenix on his mind forever. _Yes, I am ready,_ he said. And _Malfoy,_ the name a memory and a promise, sweet and sharp as cinnamon.

The tips of their wings touched, and then it was their fingers, touching. Heat scorched their human skin, singed their human hair, jet-black like raven feathers, white-blond like snow in the desert. Their hands were holding on to each other, as their bodies were hurdled towards the ruby heart of the sun. 

In another moment, they burst into flame, flickering blue, sparkling red –

_Burning Day._

* *

She would have known that black colour hair, those green eyes anywhere. When the tall woman in army fatigues entered her diner, Aunt Timila recognised Harry's granddaughter at once. He had told her of the "girl" – _a grown woman really!_ – how she was running Sanctuary like a boot camp. All decent wizarding kind were returning to London, and Aunt Timila should have expected people come asking about Harry Potter. About Flash Man. Still, when she saw the woman standing in the door, framed by the morning sun behind her, she missed Harry so much it made her heart ache. The woman walked straight up towards her, heavy nailed boots thumping loudly on the floor. But she took care not to step into the golden squares of light, and that had to be in the blood, because Harry had been just the same.

"Good morning. Are you Aunt Timila?" the woman asked.

"I am." She checked the chicken sizzling in the pan, reached for the lemons. "And you must be Patti Potter." Nobody had married much during the war, not like in her generation when a girl was looking forward to nothing so much as her wedding day. Now, with the sound of Harry's last name on her tongue, Aunt Timila was glad Lily had kept her maiden name. 

"Oh," Patti smiled. "I found the right place finally. You know granddad."

"I certainly did know him."

The smile vanished. "He is dead?" She sank into the nearest chair, exhaustion suddenly showing in her face. "He always said that he was waiting to go until Voldemort was destroyed." She looked up to Aunt Timila. "He is gone, Voldemort, isn't he? Gone for good, forever?"

"London lies in sunshine, honey, the Dementors are pushed back into the moors by those silver ghosts of your kind – wizards and witches, I mean. Death Eaters are fleeing the country, seeking exile in Russia, from what one hears. I'd say, yes, Voldemort is gone." She added the bay leaves to the pan. "They're setting up a new Ministry of Magic in the City."

Patti nodded. "That's what I'm down here for. They want me to head the Auror Office."

Aunt Timila smiled and turned to cut slices of lemon. Harry would have been so proud. She could almost hear his dark voice, telling her all about it.

Patti stared out of the window and when she turned back, her green eyes shimmered with unshed tears. "Do you – ?" she started, but her voice broke and she fished a blue handkerchief out of one of the many pockets of her trousers, loudly blew her nose, wiped those tears away.

"He is fine, sweetheart, all fine," Aunt Timila said and meant to tell Harry's granddaughter about the pair of swifts that had come to her on the day after Voldemort's end. The brown plumage of the one was shot with dark blue feathers, the other was red almost like a robin's breast. She hadn't seen swifts as colourful since her childhood in Delhi. They stayed for long minutes, flying around in the back yard. _They made it,_ the swifts let her know, _happy, together._ Aunt Timila had been humming a joyful tune ever since. But before she could say a word, Patti got her emotions back under control.

"Did he go alone, do you know?" she asked. "Did he die there in Temple Church all by himself, fighting? They only found his wand, not the body …"

Aunt Timila heard the deep sorrow behind those words. A soldier grieving for a fallen comrade more than a granddaughter missing her granddad, to be sure, but this woman had never really known Harry. What strange children they had been raising these last eighty years.

"No," she said as she reached for the ginger, "no, he didn't go alone. There was a friend, and he went with him. A wizard." Powerful and good with birds, she thought, but she didn't say it.

Patti gazed at her from those green eyes, curiosity written all over her face. "A wizard? Do you know his name?"

"Draco," Aunt Timila said, for this was the name Harry had told her. "Malfoy," she added, because this was how Harry himself had called him.

"A Malfoy!?" Patti sounded plain dubious. "But they were traitors of the worst kind, Death Eaters, every one of them."

"I wouldn't know about that." Aunt Timila mixed in the ginger and cumin with the tamarind paste. She thought of Harry cradling Draco's hand, his broad shoulders hunched, a fierce spark in his eyes, warning the world to dare as much as harm just one tip of Draco's hair. She thought, too, of Draco's brilliant smile, when Harry had leaned against him, the way he had put his arm around Harry's waist, making sure he was there and safe and well. "But this one could never have betrayed Harry. Never," she repeated, because if she was certain of one thing, then of this.

Patti shrugged, the expression on her face clearly showing that she could not imagine her granddad having anything to do with a Death Eater. It was a sentiment Aunt Timila would have shared, less than a week ago. Now she thought that a life was so much longer than the short minutes it took to burn a Dark Mark into yielding skin. The grey between the black and white was the first victim of every war, always. But these were things that this child would hardly understand. Not yet, anyway. 

Aunt Timila fed Chicken Miravna to Harry's granddaughter, told her to come back and visit again. After the tall woman had stepped out onto Dartmouth Park Hill, into the unfamiliar hustle and bustle of the street, Aunt Timila closed the door behind her. The little bell tinkled, and her gaze fell on the poster of the phoenix rising, fire in the sky above a green valley. She paused, listened for the fluttering of wings outside in the backyard. There was silence, but perhaps Aunt Timila heard something still, for she smiled and went to crush the mustard seeds for her Biryani. 

That night, she dreamed of grey eyes, misty and clear, like a spring.

_fin_

***** This description of Scorpius is a quote from Frayach's [The Price We Pay For Wings](http://community.livejournal.com/hd_holidays/77197.html).

  


Link to [Livejournal Post](http://vaysh11.livejournal.com/33487.html).

  



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